Friday, September 27, 2002

Your philosophy, my life.
Sorta like jelly crystals.
Add water, refrigerate and voila...Gaston in the making..

Is it a virtue to be infinitely malleable?
I'm not too sure and yet I don't see why not. Is it acculturization or submission? To look into your head and pick the parts I like and make them all my own.
Isn't that what supermarkets do?

Sunday, September 22, 2002

The waters are calm and the sun bright.
Turmoil beckons with a banshee's wail.
A rush of blood and a body falls. Right into the maelstrom.

Friday, September 20, 2002

How can I hope to make you understand?
Why I do?
What I do?

This is one of my most favourite frames from Fiddler on the Roof. Bleak, languishing railway station at the border of a Jewish village somewhere in the barren Russian landscape. And two voices rising above the gloom. Clear as reeds, strong as strength.

Lend me a frame and elevate this life less ordinary. A small push, a big shove and I sail. A skiff on calm waters and a carton of beer. That's all I ask of you.
What did I do today that was different from any other day? I just was, nothing new, earth-shaking or dream-shattering. Just the same old thing. The same old thing gets nicer every day. If I amhappy, so are you. Don't tell me any different.

This has been a crazy week. All I did was sit quiet and watch the drama unfold. Multiple stages, intense characterisations. Single member audience traveling ticketless.
Sunil and the rest of the guys have been developing this awesomely exciting script. They're planning to stage it at Fergusson for Oorja. Extremely simple, powerful theme.
The play starts like any other would; plot, characters, conflict and resolution. Well, almost resolution.

The play refuses to end.
The actors snap out. They throw a tantrum. They walk.
They won't.

Time to take the shroud off the corpse and show the dead for what they are.
Meaningless, non-existent, unimportant, unknown.
Like 'The End'?

What else can I say? All I want is a window-display of my endless erudition of all things bright and beautiful.

What are the words about?
Non-confrontation, denial and cross-country races?
Defuse the grenades and chase firecrackers in the sky
Watch the gas fall back to earth in a tawdry funeral of two-penny sparks.
Everyday is an Impressionist canvas and my opthalmologist prescribes glasses to clear my vision. What's the bloody point?

Thursday, September 19, 2002

I lost my diary.
A few days back.

It isn't exactly a diary. I ramble in it as and when something gives.

And I have no clue where I had left it.

Somebody mailed me a few days back, saying he had found it and so I know I'm getting it back. Which is good I guess.
But it's not so great really. I was worried because there is a load of nonsense and crap in the thing. Random bits of my head. And I did want them back. But I kind of let it go. I don't own it anymore. It will come back. But what was is no longer. I know he's read it and it's not mine anymore. I didn't write to be read.

I'm confused and detached and irritated.
As a friend told me, maybe I should stop carrying my personal effects out of my home. But how do Ieave this head behind?

Monday, September 16, 2002

I have a life. When I least expect it, I find it.

Been running around University all day. The project is finally kicking off. Is a pretty ambitious HUGE five year thing that has to start off with a feasibility report. That means I have tons of structural work coming up. I like the stuff. Putting things in order.

Last Friday was a huge load of fun. Took a whole bunch of screaming 6-15 year olds to the Lohegaon airport. Field trip for this organisation I volunteer once in a while for. We got to see the insides of a really plush, neat monoplane. Absolute high point and the kids went mad! Hema Malini, Esha Deol and the other kid, Ahana landed up at just that moment (in town for the Pune festival) and obviously, the plane was promptly forgotten! Complete pandemonium in the gallery.Celebrity appeal is to be seen to be believed.

The weekend's gone. The concept still stays, though all days are holidays right now. And I'm supposed to be working doubly hard, operative word being 'supposed'. Was up on the terrace day before chatting with a friend. My most erudite, coherent, meaningless conversations have always been on rooftops and terraces. The silence and the distance inspire all that blab. All my theories fall into place in thin air.

Theory of the week: Everything is open and amenable to manipulation.To elaborate, manipulation does not carry with it the usual literary connotation; black fades into grey and the issue of pulling strings is only so far as the end justifying the means.

To repeat a platitude, we all create our tight little cocoons of wefts, warps and gossamer. And preservation comes at a cost.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

This one is long due. Just been too busy, tired, crazed, puzzled and worried.
And just so alive.

Thinking is an activity that is beginning to happen in situations more frequent and meaningful than the usual happenstance.
Looking for belief and trying to manufacture some of my own. God, Destiny, Fate, Control....what's thy poison?

I landed up at a temple last week. After ages. With this image in my head. Of hearing voices in suspended time. Of hallowed stone and and wisdom sitting tight. Of age and eminence and brilliance. The usual suspects.
Nothing happened. The priests had paunches and the murals were tawdry. The idol had laughing eyes.

We set our anchors, our points of reference at long-forgotten points if trivial time. And never veer too far.
His stories were my anchors, gods and Goddesses and Yaskhas and Ganas. Never the idols.
His feet moving in an even tempo on the cold night of a ritual. Never the temple.

I went alone to the temple and he wasn't with me.
So I walked away.

Friday, September 06, 2002

My demands are many and his abilities limited.
His needs are simple and my generosity stilted.
Pray how do I make a life?
He likes my hair. And the way it curls.
And my legs. And the way they move.
And my head. And the way it rambles.
He likes most of the package.
Familiar territory. I know my way through this.

He did too. Liked the way I made my path. And lived through his days. Made his years go away.
And spoke with the unafraid countenance of innocence.

Take it away, lads!

I like the way I cry. And bend and break.
I like what I cannot see.
I don't like this. Just too pretty.
It's all his pretty picture

Tuesday, September 03, 2002

Something burns somewhere.
A body. A child. A king. A scribe.
Lasting embers. Lighting the way to the stage. A solitary spotlight on a dying life. Leaving behind memories for centuries to bathe in.
Warm glow. Passing light.

Me, I don't like the light. I like the anticipation of the fade-out. Like the purple sky before the blackout. The last flicker in hot wax.

Battle-worn, weary and lamenting. That is how they leave the survivors. Damn the end. Somebody leave a sunrise.

Leave me the tentative half-beat step of a morning ray. Leave me your skin and your years. Let me hold onto the muslin on your body and the calluses on your fingers. Tell me you are there even when you're not.
Hang around in the palace of the good ghost and enter my house with the wind in my sleeve.