Thursday, November 17, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
My Friend Grunting
And then slowly my heart sunk. I woke up, and I hoped, like the end of all frightening stories today, there will be a twist in the tale, there will be a red herring, and I will not die. But this was all too real. And I knew I was minutes away from death.
Days before, I had already died once. It would seem like good friends always come through for you, no matter what. But my good friends hid their heads in the sand once I bit the dust. I was left alone. And so I decided to make myself a new friend. Every one needs friend they can call their own. Some times, when the world deals you a bad hand, you have to assume the impossible is extremely probable.
And so I sat down, and I stared at the wall endlessly for hours, neither blinking nor crying. And I felt sorrow, I felt pure unadulterated grief. But I did not cry. I stopped myself from crying, when all I wanted to do was break down into pieces and wish to be able to pick myself up. I let the sorrow build up inside of me. I let the desperation, the frustration, the anger and isolation mold up inside my soul, right next to my heart, my heart burnt as my emotions took refuge near by. My hands shook, as anger very quickly took over every emotion in my brain and my eyes went blood shot. And I realized it was now time to make my new friend.
And so I cried.
My new friend was made out of sheer sorrow, grief and anger. Frustration and desolation gave it a heart. Isolation gave it a soul. My new friend was extremely dark, with red shot eyes, just like mine. Just like an angry friend is supposed to have. He had almost no form except to me he looked like a very dark cloud. His feet never touched the ground, and he seemed to hover inches above the earth, with a aura so dark, it made me blink. My new friend was dense, and he was speechless. All he was was a reflection of me in an extremely dark mirror.
The first few days he simply floated around with me, not blinking, not breathing, emotionless as a rainy cloud. All he did was grunt, and he grunted every time I felt a pang of pain- either from anger or hurt. I did not mind the dense entity follow me around every where I went, even when I slept he would simply stand besides the bed and stare down at me.
Grunting.
After all, a friend is supposed to be a dense, mute, grunting companion.
It was after a few days that I realized a few things. My friends came back to me. It grunted. My girlfriend came back to me. It grunted. My family accepted me back. It grunted. Every time I heard it grunt, I felt grief, I felt anger, I felt frustration all over again. I felt trapped in an overwhelming sense of guilt, every time it grunted.
I was unquestionably trapped. I tried my best to smile after things became alright again. I tried my best to keep happy thoughts lingering in my brain, when fate decided it was supposed to be nicer to me. When things were happening as I always hoped, I could feel no hope. My new friend was now getting denser by the day. Its eyes, coal shot red, widened by the minute. And with each second, I could see a very thin smile develop on its formless face.
My friends were confused about my depression. My girl friend left me again, unable to deal with my erratic mood swings and rage tantrums. My family stuck out with me the longest, and tried to get me all help possible. I visited doctors and I saw psychologists. They poked me, gave me pills and even shot radiation through my brain to confirm I was still in control of my own sanity. They all looked down at the chart and sighed. And with that my family lost hope, and lost interest. I was now back with my friend. Grunting.
And today, I can hear its grunting right next to my shoulder. Its getting louder. I am getting weaker. I did not foresee the fact that I had made a monster, who was, without doubt, hundred percent anger, grief, desperation and isolation. And it fed on exactly the same. It needed me to be depressed. It needed my to be suicidal. The more I cried, the more it grunted. My friend. It wanted to see me suffer.
And so I lie in my bed today, very sure of the fact that this is not all just a simple nightmare, but exactly what would happen if I befriended depression. My friend, my monster, my demon now haunts me every day and not day.
Every Calvin is not meant to have a Hobbes.
Ed Lithium
Days before, I had already died once. It would seem like good friends always come through for you, no matter what. But my good friends hid their heads in the sand once I bit the dust. I was left alone. And so I decided to make myself a new friend. Every one needs friend they can call their own. Some times, when the world deals you a bad hand, you have to assume the impossible is extremely probable.
And so I sat down, and I stared at the wall endlessly for hours, neither blinking nor crying. And I felt sorrow, I felt pure unadulterated grief. But I did not cry. I stopped myself from crying, when all I wanted to do was break down into pieces and wish to be able to pick myself up. I let the sorrow build up inside of me. I let the desperation, the frustration, the anger and isolation mold up inside my soul, right next to my heart, my heart burnt as my emotions took refuge near by. My hands shook, as anger very quickly took over every emotion in my brain and my eyes went blood shot. And I realized it was now time to make my new friend.
And so I cried.
My new friend was made out of sheer sorrow, grief and anger. Frustration and desolation gave it a heart. Isolation gave it a soul. My new friend was extremely dark, with red shot eyes, just like mine. Just like an angry friend is supposed to have. He had almost no form except to me he looked like a very dark cloud. His feet never touched the ground, and he seemed to hover inches above the earth, with a aura so dark, it made me blink. My new friend was dense, and he was speechless. All he was was a reflection of me in an extremely dark mirror.
The first few days he simply floated around with me, not blinking, not breathing, emotionless as a rainy cloud. All he did was grunt, and he grunted every time I felt a pang of pain- either from anger or hurt. I did not mind the dense entity follow me around every where I went, even when I slept he would simply stand besides the bed and stare down at me.
Grunting.
After all, a friend is supposed to be a dense, mute, grunting companion.
It was after a few days that I realized a few things. My friends came back to me. It grunted. My girlfriend came back to me. It grunted. My family accepted me back. It grunted. Every time I heard it grunt, I felt grief, I felt anger, I felt frustration all over again. I felt trapped in an overwhelming sense of guilt, every time it grunted.
I was unquestionably trapped. I tried my best to smile after things became alright again. I tried my best to keep happy thoughts lingering in my brain, when fate decided it was supposed to be nicer to me. When things were happening as I always hoped, I could feel no hope. My new friend was now getting denser by the day. Its eyes, coal shot red, widened by the minute. And with each second, I could see a very thin smile develop on its formless face.
My friends were confused about my depression. My girl friend left me again, unable to deal with my erratic mood swings and rage tantrums. My family stuck out with me the longest, and tried to get me all help possible. I visited doctors and I saw psychologists. They poked me, gave me pills and even shot radiation through my brain to confirm I was still in control of my own sanity. They all looked down at the chart and sighed. And with that my family lost hope, and lost interest. I was now back with my friend. Grunting.
And today, I can hear its grunting right next to my shoulder. Its getting louder. I am getting weaker. I did not foresee the fact that I had made a monster, who was, without doubt, hundred percent anger, grief, desperation and isolation. And it fed on exactly the same. It needed me to be depressed. It needed my to be suicidal. The more I cried, the more it grunted. My friend. It wanted to see me suffer.
And so I lie in my bed today, very sure of the fact that this is not all just a simple nightmare, but exactly what would happen if I befriended depression. My friend, my monster, my demon now haunts me every day and not day.
Every Calvin is not meant to have a Hobbes.
Ed Lithium
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Manmadhan
I think I am going crazy.
The pitter-patter of little feet would have made me smile before. Today, however, I am paralyzed. With each childish footstep and the following innocent giggles, my heart sinks and I rethink every single intention of mine to marry my fiance.
Trust me, Viraj, you will see it. You will definitely come face to face, and you will be scared. You will be scared Viraj, and you will not know what you should do. And that is what it does, that is what it wants to do all along. It will play with you, and it will make you question every thing you ever felt about her.
The dark room is not dark enough, and I soon realize, finding me crouching on the cold marble floor would be nothing besides child's play. I see the child's chubby little foot in the family mirror in front of me, and then I see the cold silver steel for a bit more than a single instance. Something about the way the steel shone, made me sweat, and it made me gasp.
And one gasp is enough. The footsteps stop. The giggles cease. Through the corner of my eyes, I see a small little curly haired head turn.
I try to not look directly at it, and end up gazing at its smile. And what bothers me most was, how even while the tiny little cherub hands reached slowly for the silver steel, it's smile was undeniable child-like. Innocent.
Not just a little kid, Viraj, Manmadhan.
Never did I think, I would believe in such old wives tales. However, in this case, the old wives weren't paying the price for love. It was simple. And incredible. And people somehow fail to see that incredible is used in a negative connotation. The legend was well to the point, Manmadhan would do anything to see true love. Armed with a silver steel bow and arrow, Manmadhan would not smile all the time.
I am telling you, I don't think you love her. Don't go ahead with this if you have even one small ounce of doubt.
But I love her.
I see a shadow sweep past the wall in front of me and it comes to a rest in front of the old Victorian mirror. I can see it now.
A three foot fair skinned child, curly golden hair swaying with the wind that didn't exist. All it wore was a pitiful white diaper with an enlarged silver steel pin, and I can see some vague undiscriminating stains on the white cloth, which look unusually like dried blood. On its chubby back, it sports a silver steel container full of fine arrows that seem to shine in an unholy eerie mist, which surrounds Manmadhan itself. Till now I can see its back alone, but it soon it steps out from behind the wooden desk it had hid itself behind.
A smile that every mother would be proud of, a shining silver steel bow rests within its hands. Its hands rested well on its chubby stomach and it breaks out into a nice little smile. I am almost mesmerized as it slowly pulls back the arrow with unexpected dexterity. It is not holy, it is now sacred. I can see the evil that it exudes from within, with its childish smile and the unearthly giggle.
I am extremely afraid now. But I cannot move. I am forced to think. I definitely do love her. I have loved her from the day I met her. I have always called her up every day and told her how much I loved her. She knows I love her. I have always made it very clear. I love her.
The arrow strikes me clean in between my eyes. And so does something else.
Do I, really?
I open my eyes and I see her, standing over my head, crying. She hugs me as soon as I can get up. She explains how everyone found me unconscious in the old attic next to the old Victorian mirror. I touch my forehead and I find no mark of an extremely sharp silver steel arrow. She explains how the doctors have no explanation for it besides extreme stress. I confess, to myself, I am baffled as well. But some how things seem clearer now.
I look to my right and I see a mother holding her new born son, and crying in joy. I see the father doing the same as well. A fair skinned little child, that looks me directly in my eye.
' I don't want to marry you.' I find myself saying. And I know she will ask me my reasons very soon. I am very clear. I know exactly what to say.
Ed Lithium
The pitter-patter of little feet would have made me smile before. Today, however, I am paralyzed. With each childish footstep and the following innocent giggles, my heart sinks and I rethink every single intention of mine to marry my fiance.
Trust me, Viraj, you will see it. You will definitely come face to face, and you will be scared. You will be scared Viraj, and you will not know what you should do. And that is what it does, that is what it wants to do all along. It will play with you, and it will make you question every thing you ever felt about her.
The dark room is not dark enough, and I soon realize, finding me crouching on the cold marble floor would be nothing besides child's play. I see the child's chubby little foot in the family mirror in front of me, and then I see the cold silver steel for a bit more than a single instance. Something about the way the steel shone, made me sweat, and it made me gasp.
And one gasp is enough. The footsteps stop. The giggles cease. Through the corner of my eyes, I see a small little curly haired head turn.
I try to not look directly at it, and end up gazing at its smile. And what bothers me most was, how even while the tiny little cherub hands reached slowly for the silver steel, it's smile was undeniable child-like. Innocent.
Not just a little kid, Viraj, Manmadhan.
Never did I think, I would believe in such old wives tales. However, in this case, the old wives weren't paying the price for love. It was simple. And incredible. And people somehow fail to see that incredible is used in a negative connotation. The legend was well to the point, Manmadhan would do anything to see true love. Armed with a silver steel bow and arrow, Manmadhan would not smile all the time.
I am telling you, I don't think you love her. Don't go ahead with this if you have even one small ounce of doubt.
But I love her.
I see a shadow sweep past the wall in front of me and it comes to a rest in front of the old Victorian mirror. I can see it now.
A three foot fair skinned child, curly golden hair swaying with the wind that didn't exist. All it wore was a pitiful white diaper with an enlarged silver steel pin, and I can see some vague undiscriminating stains on the white cloth, which look unusually like dried blood. On its chubby back, it sports a silver steel container full of fine arrows that seem to shine in an unholy eerie mist, which surrounds Manmadhan itself. Till now I can see its back alone, but it soon it steps out from behind the wooden desk it had hid itself behind.
A smile that every mother would be proud of, a shining silver steel bow rests within its hands. Its hands rested well on its chubby stomach and it breaks out into a nice little smile. I am almost mesmerized as it slowly pulls back the arrow with unexpected dexterity. It is not holy, it is now sacred. I can see the evil that it exudes from within, with its childish smile and the unearthly giggle.
I am extremely afraid now. But I cannot move. I am forced to think. I definitely do love her. I have loved her from the day I met her. I have always called her up every day and told her how much I loved her. She knows I love her. I have always made it very clear. I love her.
The arrow strikes me clean in between my eyes. And so does something else.
Do I, really?
I open my eyes and I see her, standing over my head, crying. She hugs me as soon as I can get up. She explains how everyone found me unconscious in the old attic next to the old Victorian mirror. I touch my forehead and I find no mark of an extremely sharp silver steel arrow. She explains how the doctors have no explanation for it besides extreme stress. I confess, to myself, I am baffled as well. But some how things seem clearer now.
I look to my right and I see a mother holding her new born son, and crying in joy. I see the father doing the same as well. A fair skinned little child, that looks me directly in my eye.
' I don't want to marry you.' I find myself saying. And I know she will ask me my reasons very soon. I am very clear. I know exactly what to say.
Ed Lithium
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Of hope and human
gasping for air, hoping to breathe
a monument of something that never dies
crumbles to dust under the weight of its own lies
and a heart beats, out of sheer compulsion and fright
some poor little child is still afraid of the night
and he questions his own strength
and determination
where is hope
when all i find is distraction
and all there is to life
there also in death
so on what basis do we decide
to go through life, as means or mode
in hope to reach a better abode
life or death, all a man wants is a day when he doesnt have to hide
ed lithium
7 AM 3.05 PM ---- My first encounter with Tamil cinema ( A review of Seventh Sense)
I like sincere movies.
This week for me, I believed, was scarred and blistered after the weekend RA.one debacle. Three hours trapped in the middle of nowhere ( IMAX Wadala) I believed that I was not going get through this. Needless to say, I was much relieved to be back home and be able to yes to a film with one of my closest friends.
The fun started much before going to the actual movie.
One of the more genuine attempts at movies, and definitely of the most sincere movies this year- 7aum Arivu (Seventh Sense) is definitely a movie worth watching. Starring Suriya and Shruti Hasan, and directed by the impeccable Murugadoss, this was my first Tamil encounter in the cinemas.
Being born a Tamilian- Marathi , and having spent my entire life, first in Bombay and then in Mumbai, I obviously had no understanding of a single syllable of Tamil. Jalebi language, what I used to call, and for no understandable reason did I make an effort to learn it. Me and my friend had decided to catch 7aum Arivu (sevent sense) a movie by the Ghajani director and starring Surya and the extremely noteworthy Shruti Hasan. Having heard a lot about the film, I had great expectation, and it was with these great expectations that I called up Cinemax and asked about the timings.
The conversation was as follows-
Me: I wanted to ask if the film 7 AM Arivu at Cinemax Sion has English subtitles.
Cinemax Lady : Which show?
Me: 7 AM Arivu?
Cinemax: I am sorry the show is at 3.05 pm, Sir.
When I cleared out my mistake, her fluency in Tamil made me sense a slight disgust in her tone for my lack of knowledge of Tamil. It was almost as if she knew I was half Tamil. And, in my defense, I really am.
And then me and my friend landed in the cinema, hoping to find the perfect seats to be able to read the subtitles.
The movie banks heavily on the crowd pulling Suriya and noteworthy Shruti Hasan to work out strong roles. Murugadoss writes and directs this epic, spanning over two time periods. The movie begins with a bang, taking us into the past to 1600 AD, where Bodhidharman begins is journey from his Tamilian kingdom to China. The production value instantly strikes us and I really hope more movies would watch such movies to see the effect and impact of production value on the selling prowess of a regional movie.
Suriya shows skill and charm as he shifts his roles between an 1600 AD healer-warrior-legend to an extremely talented circus performer.
Shruti Hasan, (huge fan), plays out the lead role in the movie with grace and ease, that of young Tamil biotechnologist, proud of her culture and using science to study our heritage. She plays the anchor in the move, her character joining the threads of this plot together till the very end. Her acting skills impress and amaze.
The movie proceeds with a lot of flaws, and a rather jerky time line, but with fluent direction and excellent cinematography. The characters are well painted and while the director/writer takes time for their development, this makes the movie a bit too long for one's taste. The music goes well the film, but could have been much better, as is the expectation with Tamil movies. I dont want to go into the details of this movie, but want to point out a few important facts that I came out with, after leaving the cinemas-
---- The message Suriya and Shruti Hasan leave us with, as the camera moves slowly on and away from Murugadoss, impressed me, and it seems to patch up some of the holes left in the movie. Suriya explains how the Tamil heritage is slowly being lost in the same place which it should be preserved. Shruti points out that no one should be forced to resort to Science to 'awaken the Tamilian within us' when we all have the power to do it ourself. This small and seemingly unnecessary and pedantic interview at the end of the movie explains how well the metaphor of 'helping to bring back Bodhidharman to life' is, in fact, an effective metaphor to bring out the true message, as it was intended by the director.
---- Regional movies, I agree, will always be bound by certain frames, and I feel that is necessary to keep regional films regional. However, this movie is a good example of how great production, direction and a big budget can make a regional film not only at par with, but also above the quality of Bollywood films.
---- Innovation- something 90 percent of all movies in Bollywood consciously exclude from their process. To explain this in one single line I want to point out a scene where Suriya takes Shruti for a ride on his elephant on the streets of India, and how Shruti manages to ' awaken Suriya's genetic memory' within 15 days. The base line is that 'innovation pays'
----I would really hope films like these help directors realise the importance of taking risks. This movie goes to prove that taking a risk with the right talent and good attitude is better than the fan following of any super star. RA.one was tangled mesh of a half a dozen sci-fi movies and depended only and only on SRK's appeal and special effects to sell a film that basically lacked any script whatsoever. RA.one- good movies can be made without being so bland- SRK, take notes.
This movie not just helped me recover from a bad bout of RA.one from the earlier week, but it actually gave me a feeling of pride of being half Tamil. It reminded me that even though I have lived my entire life in Mumbai, I have been born in Bangalore. It reminded me that I have more than one hometown.
It showed me the best part of being an Indian- you get to enjoy two cultures at the same time. You get to be proud of any number of cultures you want to. Considering this movie got its message out to me, and made me feel what it intended me to feel, and also not forgetting I have been completely blinded behind a Marathi veil for my entire life to my Tamil culture, I think this movie is not bad at all. It made me think, and I like that in a movie sometimes.
Everyone appreciates sincere movies.
Ed lithium
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
The day which led to the day when the world was subjected to ' K3G'- Happy Birthday SRK
My relationship with Shahrukh Khan goes back a long way, and like most relationships I have endured, it has not been an easy one. Today is 40-odd birthday of King Khan and I cant say I am not impressed by the sway the King Khan has over the Indian minds these days. He has definitely changed the face of the planet forever.
But then so did Hitler, a few decades ago....
With SRK, it has always been a classic hate-hate relationship, extremely easy to sustain, thanks to the continuing endeavors of the KK himself. In my early childhood, my only image of the King Khan, has been that of a messy haired short guy with a speech impediment, who runs around trying to kill beautiful actresses in the movie. I dare say he crossed the line when he tried to mess with the ever-fantastic and never-hated Madhuri Dixit in 'Anjaam'. I would have forgiven him for trying to stalk and menace Juhi Chawla, and completely ignoring the fact that Sunny could have restructured his face ( and may be, just may be, fixing his speech as well). But, I agree, that was a quite younger Khan who probably was still trying to find his own ground in this maze of Bollywood.
If there a lesson taught to me, imprinted on my mind, by KK, is that popularity never translates to talent. Popularity is, and always is, just popularity. And KK understood this and realized he had to take a decision now - decide between improving talent or improving his popularity. As a spew of Switzerland based movies wit h him raising his hands towards the heaven, Rahul found his ground in this Bollywood maze- and the masses love him for it. Movie after movie, in each one of them, he spent trying to woo girls and earn the respect of his parents ( which part was harder is quite obvious) and slowly his movies created a niche for themselves.
Another lesson I learnt from KK- make a niche for yourself, as repugnant as it may be, but make your niche.
Some of his less niche- centric films were watchable, to a certain extent, if my eye lids were glued to my forehead. And it would have to be a pretty strong industrial glue for that matter. My Name is Khan- its a sentence in itself, and describes the movie in itself. The first scene where KK stands in the line, his acting suggesting he has a yet to be diagnosed mental illness, which makes him shiver and shake and takes a minute to finish any sentence he wants to speak out. Swades was probably his only sincere attempt at movies, but again it might be extreme bias for Gayatri Joshi which is making me say this. Nonetheless, after Swades I believes KK could pick up his act.
A special mention to Om Shanti Om - thank you for introducing Deepika Padukone to us, SRK. For that, we adore you. This movie highlighted SRK's friendship for Arjun Rampal - he served two purposes. 1- He is pretty much the best looking actor in the Industry and 2. His Oak tree bark expression face can make SRK's 'acting capabilities' look oscar winning and heart -warming.
Don came and went, and I hoped against hope, that Don ko pakadna wont be that impossible. But I very distinctly remember the popcorn in the movie theatre being really good. So, thank you SRK for the wonderful cinema experience. Also, the samosa's weren't all that great. But, I managed.
And last but in no way the least - RA. one
Here, I stop, I cannot bring myself to talk about this 'movie'. And thats why, I cant go on.
But one thing is for sure, love him or hate him, he is truly the King Khan, and had it not been for most of his movies, I would have never appreciated the 'better' films of Bollywood just a little bit more....
Happy Birthday SRK
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