a dream called sleep

'It's been how many years?', looking at her birthday cake which has her name engraved, she wonders. It always rains. It rained that very evening too. She is a fool. She thinks, it's a sign that someone is watching her over. God? One cannot be sure of 'God' unless you have seen him with your naked eyes. Have we? Sure, we have. We have seen him in our day-to-day life, in amidst of chaos, when someone makes our moments, fills our day with their warmth. We have felt his presence in all of those things, which pauses the moment and makes us smile. Haven't we?

She fooled you too.

Cutting the dream-sequensque nonsense, she realizes the unusual, now. It was a call from a dear friend. This dear friend was completely unaware of her birthday (how very special) morning, invites her to an intimate poetry-recitation session in remembrance of Bhagwat Rawat. After a moment's pause and not getting a response, he asks, 'you know him?' Hungrily, munching on her multi-fucking-grain bread, she says, 'not heard of him'. No prizes for guessing, he was kind enough to divulge details. Right before disconnecting the phone, she conveys disappointment on his ignorance of her birthday. (Secretly, she enjoys making her friends feel guilty). After making him feel guilty, she disconnects and starts to day-dream about the evening. Maybe, he would recite a poetry just to.. She is day-dreaming.

She is an idiot.

It's just rained and drizzling at the moment. She has this thing for drenching self in rain rather hiding under an umbrella. She calls it ecstatic. She is delusional. Swirling-up her mustard-yellow long skirt, gets into an auto, reaches at venue. It's one of the 16 storey building in Oshiwara and it has a lift too and it works fine. To her, a lift that works fine is a luxury, she can't afford. You didn't know? It's an another story, a long one at that. She will tell you the 'story of a lift', in another story. Not in this one. Yeah, 'my ground-my rules' and all that bull.

Gathering is exact intimate, her friend assured of. Like-minded lunatics. Teasing each other for not being in touch, we start laughing. Swallowing up every word of Rawat's poetry, she keeps asking about the poet and his life. His poetry just redefined the simplicity of words and the ways to communicate it. Here, sharing her most favorite:

चिड़ियों को पता नहीं

चिड़ियों को पता नहीं कि वे

कितनी तेज़ी से प्रवेश कर रही हैं

कविताओं में।

इन, अपने दिनों में, खासकर(specially)

उन्हें चहचहाना था

उड़ानें भरनी थीं

और घंटों, गरदन में चोंच डाले

गुमसुम बैठकर

अपने अंडे सेने थे।

मैं देखता हूँ कि वे

अक्सर आती हैं

बेदर डरी हुईं

पंख फड़फड़ाती

आहत

या अक्सर मरी हुईं।

उन्हें नहीं पता था कि

कविताओं तक आते-आते

वे चिड़ियाँ नहीं रह जातीं

वे नहीं जानतीं कि उनके भरोसे

कितना कुछ हो पा रहा है

और उनके रहते हुए

कितना कुछ ठहरा हुआ है।

अभी जब वे अचानक उड़ेंगी

तो आसमान उतना नहीं रह जाएगा

और जब वे उतरेंगी

तो पेड़ हवा हो जाएंगे।

मैं सारी चिड़ियों को इकट्ठा करके

उनकी ही बोली में कहना चाहता हूँ

कि यह बहुत अच्छा है

कि तुम्हें कुछ नहीं पता।

तुम हमेशा की तरह

कविताओं की परवाह किए बिना उड़ो

चहचहाओ

और बेखटके

आलमारी में रखी किताबों के ऊपर

घोंसले बनाकर

अपने अंडे सेओ।

न सही कविता में

पर हर रोज़

पेड़ से उतरकर

घर में

दो-चार बार

ज़रूर आओ-जाओ.

The pulse at the back of her neck is throbbing. She is marveled.

We talk about poetry the whole evening till midnight, while it's pouring heavily outside. Stealing her quiet moment, she realizes, poetry makes this world worth to live in. She is nuts.

One of the click from the evening. Meet Dhani, Rawat's granddaughter (and, most prettiest sight ever):

It's midnight. 'Quite an evening', she whispers.

She is quiet. She is sleeping.

लेकिन अमृता....

(To Amrita - On her birth anniversary)

तुमने समाधि का वरदान नहीं
भटकन की बेचैनी का शाप पाया

इमरोज़ को लिखे गए तुम्हारे खतों ने 
कितनी रात मेरे तकिये और मन को भिगोये रखा

लडकियां जब शरीर के मिलन की रातें सजाती
तुम अपने ख्वाबों में अपनी कलम से पूछा करती
"तुम मेरा साथ दोगे? कब तक मेरा साथ दोगे?" 

तुम्हारी याद का हर शब्द ऐसा है
मानो कोई शरीर से चुभी सुइयां निकाल रहा हो

तुमने 'भूरो' की विरह-चीखों को शहनाई बनकर गाया

हाथ पकडने 
और हाथ थामने 
के बीच का फर्क तुम्ही ने मुझे समझाया

तुम्हारी कहानियों के रोष की रस्सियों ने बटकर मुझे बनाया है

औरों का मैं कह नहीं सकती 
कि किस हद तक
पर तुम्ही से थोडा कुछ मैने सीखा
हदों से आगे बढ़ना, सरहदों को पार करना और परछाईयों का पीछा करना

अब भी कर रही हूँ
करती रहूंगी... 
उम्मीद में

लेकिन अमृता
कहना चाहती हूँ
तुम्हारी तरह… 
हर किसी को इमरोज़ नहीं मिलता।

Certainly 'one-of-its-kind' but hope not the last. - Madras Cafe.

In today's time, where every film-maker/director claims his 'film' as one-of-its-kind, (with all due respect to their hard work and its outcome), here comes a director who doesn't go over-board and let the film allow to do the talking.

Shoojit Sircar's Madras Cafe is one who leads (as I think in my little opinion). As a director, his second-timer lives upto the expectations, while handling with a walking-on-tight-rope subject.

Unlike his first directorial 'Vicky Donor' with an acid-like-subject-dipped-in-humor, Madras Cafe narrates the story of a nation dealing with political tension while the other one is facing civil war, plus, a conspiracy that will change the future of both the nations. With both his films, Sircar's message as a director/filmmaker is clear :
1) THAT his first success was not a fluke.
2) That he has taken a secret vow that he won't take his audience for granted (unlike his other contemporaries do).
3) THAT he will not bow down to stereotypes story-telling narratives and remains true to what it claims to capture.. that too, without sensationalizing the plot.

Madras Cafe's takes us on a ride of how, what & when of the-then Lankan war, a conspiracy that kills a nation's prime-minister.. without taking names OR sides (APPLAUSE). Yes, the characters in the film have their personal setbacks but Sircar manages to steer ahead the plot without being melodramatic.

It will be an injustice if I won't mention John Abraham's role as a producer-cum-lead-role. During his (almost) a decade of acting tenure, his acting skills has not only been questioned many-a-times but also 'labelled' as inconsistent. John's choice(s) as a producer introduces us with his new face. A welcome change, I say! (Having said that, How I wish to bow before John and congratulate him for being a rarest-of-rare-case of model-turned-actor-turned-producer).

Miss Fakhri (unlike in her debut 'Rockstar') not only breaks the ice of being a sheer disappointment but also, contributes to the story.

MADRAS CAFE brings a fresh air in this sheer mayhem of 100cr. club and all that jazz, a change so pleasant that certainly is one-of-its-kind but hope not last.

Last but not the least, as this old saying goes, "you cannot stop people from watching bad cinema but you can always spread a word-of-mouth and increase the viewership of good cinema'.

Here's to the new face of Bollywood. Hail Bollywood!

P.S.: ONE MUST AVOID 'Madras Cafe', if:
1) You think, it's just another film based on real events/characters/facts.
2) You are looking for bollywood typical patterns of unreal fight sequnces OR irrelevant conflict scenes.
3) You think, you should ignore this post and give 'Madras Cafe' a shot (and believe me, my friend, I will brim and brew happiness if you do so).

A Pregnant Thought.

Ovulating at the moment.
With every passing moment.

Let alone his touch..
Even his single thought
Farthest mention of his name
Or the slightest glimpse of his skin

Makes her pregnant.

In all these moments of ..
Longing, waiting, lingering and feeding herself with his memories

She was not alone
She is not alone

Scores of love-children, she had
For, millions of pregnant thoughts walks with her..

She is ovulating at the moment
With every passing moment.. 

Let's?

New care can claim her.

New love can inflame her.

But..

Can you dress the wound? 

Can you ease the pain? 
How can you possibly do? 

Was it her melancholy caught on shores? 

Let's talk about you just once more 
What is it that makes you sore? 

Your pain contaminates her brain 
Conducted? X-rayed? Pain, she can't ignore! 
It surges through and through 
Like a genie let loose from an ancient lamp.

Can you save her soul? 
Insulate pain? 
Shelter her from the rain? 

Will she be washed like a pebble on the shore? 
Or swept by a volcano roar? 
The steam of rejection 
The clawing hands of need 

Let's forget our hunger 
Ride a rainbow, cloudless thunder 
Let's walk into the clouds

Let's embrace the sky. 

Let's?

Keep wondering.

Since the day, she became aware of her female-hood in amidst of flesh trade, she keep wondering, 'Why are men willing to put money down for what is so clearly faked?'

Why does the hetrosexual porn customer need the fiction of female desire to sustain his erection, instead of just naked female bodies?

And the only answer (ironically), she received from her inner/outer voices that the men aren't interested in the truth of women's experiences (She can possibly be wrong here. Correct her, if she is).

The porn customer's truth is one of paying for services; perhaps that's the only power he can claim in this interaction. But is that what gets him hard? His buying power? Why then they are (she is) advertised as prostitutes and paid to simulate their own desire?

For the man, who buys the service of a dominatrix, being 'topped' as attractive as long as it's a service. He feels in control of this fictional loss of control because he himself paid for it. Here again, he trades money for a fiction, not just for a body. Then, why do the men themselves act so unaware of this economy, when it must be an integral part of their excitement?

She is struck again and again by the parallels between the prostitution and the culture in general. The people inside -  those performing, those observing, and those managing the spectacle - are 'normal' people engaged in an activity more explicit but not different in underlying structure from much of the activity of our daily lives. Her lover quietly whispers to her (in bed) that the prostitution's only objective is to allow them (men) to define themselves and their culture as normal, because it's we (society) who call the flesh-trade marginal and perverse.

From in here, it looks like any clean division between the perverse and the normal is a false one, which allows (at least she thinks that) all kinds of oppressions to go unchallenged. It allows a father who rapes his daughter and say, 'I am not doing anything wrong. Look at those perverts out there.' It allows politicians to enact wars on drugs, wars on prostitution, wars on aliens while they trade favors with corporate dealers, pimps and coyotes out of their offices.

A part of her started to believe that prostitution does not subvert the culture, it mirrors it.

Well, she is still wondering..

बेखबर.

बेखबर हर एहसास से
हर दुआ से
हर याद से
हर सहमे लम्हे से
हर डरती रात से
बेखबर रहना उसने सीख लिया
सब कह रहे हैं, सही मायनों में उसने जीना अब सीख लिया..

Substitute-d.

She woke up perspiring to the core. Getting accustomed to the sudden introduction of light, she reached out to her bedside table for water. That's when she realized the other side of the bed was vacant. She hopped out and started calling 'Mom? Mom? Mom, where are you?'

Mom came into the room with a handkerchief wiping her already puffed, red and swollen eyes. Poured water from the bottle, patting her back.

That's when, glass dropped  of the her hand waking her up for real, from the dream.

Since the time, she left her abode, all she wished to have mother beside her. But all she had, the pillow. Beside her.

सवाल.

और जब कभी ऐसा होता है कि खुद को खुद ही के कंधे पर उठाके थक जाती हूँ.. खुद को उतार के  फ़ेंक देती हूँ. कुछ इसे 'reform' कहते हैं, कुछ कहते है कि सांप की तरह केंचुली उतार फेंकी.. कोई हिकारत से देखता है, तो किसी की नज़रों से  सवालों   का धुआं उठ रहा होता है.

क्या ज़रूरी है कि हर बात सही / गलत, जायज़ / नाजायज़  या अच्छी / खराब हो? कुछ बातें, कुछ चीज़ें 'neutral' भी तो हो सकती हैं..

हो सकती हैं?

Seen Unseen - An evening in Dharavi.

On that narrow lane off '90 Feet Road' in Dharavi, a truck can block all view ahead. Yet, in such a place, a curious crowd had gathered under fluorescent yellow-orange shamiana that Saturday evening. There were local women and children dressed in their shiny best. There were those from lands beyond Dharavi in their ethnic kurtas, cool tees and what not. Passersby wondered what all the commotion was about. And as fleeting glances deepened into interest and the crowd spilled into the street, the organizers knew that this was going to be one exhilarating evening.

By the time, I reached there, a water bottle had been got into the system.. (that's what excitement did to us, to me) for I was going to see the 'Slumdog Millionaire' fame Dharavi.. (that's how non-mumbaikars knows the place).  As this post is about 'the' evening, so let me hold my thoughts on whether Danny Boyle did any good OR just-glorified-the-slum in a bad way.

So, the assembled had gathered to attend an exhibition by SNEHA on health. They were calling the exhibition Ghar Pe (At Home).. it was an installation of art pieces made by the local participants (mostly kids). I was in awe, for every piece evoked a particular aspect of health and was the culmination of almost an year’s efforts in creativity, conversations and skill acquirement. eg: mosquitoes embroidered on windows, photographs spread on utensils and dreams moulded into ceramic slippers, colored chits on turquoise wall with kids' name and their dreams.. they were just some of the examples of household items that were afflicted by a healthy dose of messages via this form of art, this form what I was experiencing for first time. Day of many firsts, i say!! 

The inaugural was preceded by a frenzy of photos taken by and of the participants of Dekha Andekha. 

The hall that is part of Ganesh Vidya Mandir was painted a turquoise green and saw almost two hundred and fifty visitors that evening. Among those who burst with excitement into the exhibition was Akku Behn, a middle aged sweeper from the neighbourhood. For Akku Behn, who had never been to an art exhibition before, the art pieces made by our participants led her to say that it is great that women are doing something different. And then in the crowd, was the little boy who wanted a fabric globe off a dream slipper to play with. And there was the sound of many an air kiss blown into the noisy room. :-)

Kids who had just been felicitated were exuberant when they saw visitors were paying *close* attention to their art pieces. This was yet another moment when a craftswoman metamorphoses into an artist and they recount a terrific time explaining their art to curious visitors. Zarina from the photography group feels that this exhibition is sure to bring about change in the neighbourhood.

As the street lights came out, the crowd  ventured outdoors. But I could see that everyone who had come there that evening, returned with a bit of turquoise.. including me.  :-) 

शहर और वो

दौडते क़दमों का शोर
बेचैन पुतलियों की ख़ामोशी 


होंठों पर मुस्कराहट
आँखों में हिकारत 


हकीक़त का आईना
ख्वाबों का झूठ 


ख्वाहिशों का आसमान
उम्मीदों की ज़मीन


मोम सा पिघलता दिन
पत्थर सी कड़ी होती रात


किसी के मिजाज़ की गर्मी 
और.. किसी के लफ़्ज़ों का सर्दपन


सब.. ये सब मिलकर भी रत्ती भर बदल नहीं पाए हैं..
उम्मीद उस की, आज भी उसी की तरह 'हठी' है.

Iss Lamhe Ki Duvidha

Din dhalne ke thodi der baad

Raat aane se thodi der pehle

Thoda sa late 'lunch' kiya, thodi si jaldi 'dinner' 

Chai banayi, shehriyat ka namoona, laptop on kiya

Kuch adhoora likha huya poora karna tha

FB par kuch apney status par aaye comments ko reply kiya

Kuch dosto.n ke status ko 'like' kiya, kuch par comment bhi kiya..

Twitter pe login kiya, dekhne lagi toh dekha ek tweet

Kisi ne tweet kiya tha, MAA KE HAATH KA BANA GAZAR KA HALWA

Chai toh meri meethi hi thi

Maa ki yaad mein girey aansu ne meri meethi chai ko namkeen kar diya.. 

Ab duvidha mein hoon..

Aansu piyoon ke yeh namkeen chai?