“In order to promote their movies, an increasing number of celebrities/actors are opting to appear as guests on popular television shows. Often times the content of such shows is garbage. (nauseating zoom in/zoom out on the emotional mother’s face whose child contestant din’t make the cut, and other dirty techniques to exploit the viewer’s values for TRP)
I’m sure that a number of these actors recognize that, and agree to appear on such shows only to spread awareness about the film they’ve worked so hard to make. But in doing so, they’re indirectly also saying that “I approve of this type of television.” While they choose so carefully the movie scripts they work on, What about the unscripted hideousness that is reality shows? Does it dilute an actor’s integrity you think?
I’m afraid that due to your talent, you will soon be popular and somewhere down the road a publicist or agent may want you to do the same thing. Would you?”
This was posted as a comment on my last to last blog (the last being the latest victim in the insidious war I wage against political correctness) by a person calling themselves ‘Kashmirfan’. And it’s had me thinking all evening. As you all must be tired of hearing - “Sikandar” releases on the 21st of August. I await that date with an ever burgeoning mixture of excitement and dread. It’s an odd feeling knowing that pretty soon many, many (hopefully a few more many’s than that) eyes will have seen my first bit of work in front of the camera. And I’d be lying if I pretended to not care what people think about me as an actor, since it is precisely that response that will determine whether I get more work or not.
Because believe it or not, the work IS all I care about. I’ve never paused to consider what would happen to my freedom of opinion (which I value, strongly) as I moved further and further into a public arena, where not only my work, but everything about me would be judged, gauged, dismissed, admired, scorned appreciated. I never actually thought to consider the career more than finding work and doing it. I had posted a review of my honest opinion of a film recently here that I was ‘asked’ to take down. Not because what I was saying was wrong, or unfounded, but simply for the act of having said it. I’m not entitled to an opinion. I must be liked. Even though I commented only on the film. I had nothing against any of the actors in the film personally, or professionally. I’m a lover of cinema, and it always has and always will elicit a strong response from me. How can an actor not have an opinion on a film? It’s like saying a economist shouldn’t have an opinion on a new budget. It’s ludicrous.
I never considered that once I sign a contract with a production house to do a film, they legally own the rights to my time and my person and can use me to promote the film as they see fit. Consider what it must be like for actors Shahid Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra to be constantly in the news. What must it do to their private lives to have every single move they make towards one another analyzed and magnified? And of course, it’s only coincidental that they have an eagerly awaited film, “Kaminey”, shortly due to hit cinemas right? Right. Couldn’t have anything to do with that. Did they stage the relationship to promote the film? Did the producers of the film do it for them, or even despite them? Because that is how films do seem to be promoted these days - controversy and sex. The sure fire weapons in any public relation team’s arsenal. That’s all they seem to want to do, know how to. And are they wrong in thinking that all this works?
Kashmirfan, my friend, it’s a tricky question to ask and even trickier to answer. When “Sikandar” was being prepped for all the attendant, soon-to-be-unleashed marketing campaign, I was privy to a fair amount of brainstorming as to how the film should be promoted. The team seemed more interested in knowing whether I was dating a celebrity and how great that would have been in terms of marketing, than actually selling the film itself. So if the best these geniuses can come up is the idea to have me appear on the “Rakhi Sawant ka Swayamvara” show, what else needs to be said?
Thank the Goddess, that idea died a swift and immediate death, but it was an actual suggestion put on the table. How would me, who nobody in Indian really cares about right now because they’ve never even seen my work, appearing on a show like that, be promoting “Sikandar”? I have no answer. But I signed a contract that said I agreed to let the producer’s decide how best to utilize me for their marketing strategy. So if BIG Pictures had decided to push me to appear on the show, I would have been contractually obligated to do so. I would have told them to go stick their heads into dark, moist places, but then I would be labelled and ostracized in the industry for being a trouble-maker and a louse.
I think actors after a certain level of success or time, simply disconnect themselves from their public persona. They must, right? Otherwise how could they stand all the cringe-worthy things they are made to do, the rubbish shows they are made to appear on and pretend to involve themselves in? Because believe me, it’s not like an actor has a choice really. Certainly not one at my most humble level.
I concur completely with Kashmirfan’s assertion that an actor appearing on a show is an endorsement of it. Presence implies allegiance. How can an actor who is so particular about the kind of work that he/she does, be so cavalier and laissez-fair about the manner in which they conduct themselves during publicity drives? But they don’t have a choice. And in many cases, they simply don’t care, they’ve been at it for so long.
So in all honesty, I don’t know what I would do. Would I not want to help promote the film that I am a part of as best as I could? However, would that be worth the betrayal of every artistic sensibility I have, say if I was asked to allow them to link me up in the press with some actress whom I’ve barely said two words to my entire life? Or pay almost triple what I earn for a role in order to get my name and some horrendously pointless bit of badly written trivia into the press?
All I know is that I’m glad at least I’m aware of the questions. I have many leagues of maturity to chart, and missteps to go before I can consider myself wise enough to answer any of them. I’m a kid who wanted to act since he was nine years old. I wanted to be like Marlon Brando. It’s only when you grow up that you realize that Marlon Brando’s life was not a very happy one. And then you ask yourself the most important question - because anyone can survive struggle and hardship, human beings seem to be uniquely capable of that as a species. But can you survive success?
August 21st is when the quest to find an answer begins, I suppose. Failure is a familiar demon. Success…
I pray to my Goddess, that she grant me the serenity and the equilibrium to weather either with my spirit intact.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Dazed and Confused
August 21st - Sikandar. I am Jedi Mind Tricking you into seeing my movie. You cannot resist!!!
These days I seem to be sleeping a couple of hours more than I usually do. Normally, after years of boarding school upbringing and my own hyperactive nature, five hours of sleep is all that my body requires. I feel sluggish, lethargic and not at all like myself if I get more than that. These days I sleep too much. I wake up hating myself for wasting so many hours of daylight. Hours I could spend writing, or sketching, or reading, or just enjoying the sound and the smell of the rain against the palm trees in front of my window.
I know why my sleep cycle is skewed. It’s because of all the uncertainty in my life these days. Sure, my first film “Sikandar” is due for release soon and that makes me excited as hell. Sure, my life in Bombay seems to be approaching something resembling what I lost when I left New York City. But the heart of my life, the actor in me, is left wondering whether the work he was looking forward to doing this year will ever happen. Every week, sometimes every day, I hear a different version from the production houses I’m supposed to be working with. One week they say a film’s definitely on, and soon, and they sound excited and frantic to get my dates and block rehearsal times, and other days I hear people tell me that the film is shelved or abandoned or plain cast aside. And everyday my heart does a little twist. And the other film (there are two I was supposed to be doing this year)…I won’t even begin to talk about the other film, whose languishing has become so self-indulgent I don’t think it ever wants to be made.
And I know that this is the nature of the business. I don’t work in a nine to five with a boss, an oversight, a steady paycheck, a company parking spot, boring co-workers, broken coffee machine, and stringently doled out vacation time. The nature of my work and the life I lead is a chaotic fractal in a whirlpool. I know all of it. And I am as patient as I need to be to retain my sanity. It’s just some days I wake up and I feel - blue.
Schroedinger’s Heart - that’s the condition I’m suffering from. No wonder I can’t wake up in the mornings. But I vow from tomorrow morning, I shall greet the dawn. I shall pull out my notebook and write for hours, or at least try. I shall sketch, I shall watch the Tom & Jerry show and laugh like I used to before I became an adult. Because otherwise, this waiting, and this wondering will mangle all that was good and talented and centered about me. I will not let that happen. I cannot let that happen.
So, dazed and confused, and reeling - but not ready to sit down just yet.
These days I seem to be sleeping a couple of hours more than I usually do. Normally, after years of boarding school upbringing and my own hyperactive nature, five hours of sleep is all that my body requires. I feel sluggish, lethargic and not at all like myself if I get more than that. These days I sleep too much. I wake up hating myself for wasting so many hours of daylight. Hours I could spend writing, or sketching, or reading, or just enjoying the sound and the smell of the rain against the palm trees in front of my window.
I know why my sleep cycle is skewed. It’s because of all the uncertainty in my life these days. Sure, my first film “Sikandar” is due for release soon and that makes me excited as hell. Sure, my life in Bombay seems to be approaching something resembling what I lost when I left New York City. But the heart of my life, the actor in me, is left wondering whether the work he was looking forward to doing this year will ever happen. Every week, sometimes every day, I hear a different version from the production houses I’m supposed to be working with. One week they say a film’s definitely on, and soon, and they sound excited and frantic to get my dates and block rehearsal times, and other days I hear people tell me that the film is shelved or abandoned or plain cast aside. And everyday my heart does a little twist. And the other film (there are two I was supposed to be doing this year)…I won’t even begin to talk about the other film, whose languishing has become so self-indulgent I don’t think it ever wants to be made.
And I know that this is the nature of the business. I don’t work in a nine to five with a boss, an oversight, a steady paycheck, a company parking spot, boring co-workers, broken coffee machine, and stringently doled out vacation time. The nature of my work and the life I lead is a chaotic fractal in a whirlpool. I know all of it. And I am as patient as I need to be to retain my sanity. It’s just some days I wake up and I feel - blue.
Schroedinger’s Heart - that’s the condition I’m suffering from. No wonder I can’t wake up in the mornings. But I vow from tomorrow morning, I shall greet the dawn. I shall pull out my notebook and write for hours, or at least try. I shall sketch, I shall watch the Tom & Jerry show and laugh like I used to before I became an adult. Because otherwise, this waiting, and this wondering will mangle all that was good and talented and centered about me. I will not let that happen. I cannot let that happen.
So, dazed and confused, and reeling - but not ready to sit down just yet.
Untitled Prose 2
SIKANDAR - 21st AUGUST!!! Watch me movie, be entertained!
The rains returned the next day, with eagerness and vigor. They slapped against the windows like children begging him to come out and play. And so he met them halfway. Standing out on the balcony with his morning coffee getting diluted by the rain plinking in. He smiled wet smiles, and brushed the happy drops off his eyes. The world below him was rushed and potholed, and soaked and miserable. Up here, the world hissed with pleasure, and the coffee was good.
He hadn’t called her back yet, he was proud of that. Silly thing to be proud of, but he wasn’t very good at waiting, playing out the game like he should. An old girlfriend had told him he gave too much too easily, that was why people found it easy to break his heart. Of course, she said this just before doing a damn fine job of it herself. But he found it hard to hate her for it. The smile of hers nestled in his arms was still visual poetry, and the memories of her in bed, wearing nothing but his tie…People like her never understood, that the heart is never broken, it’s tempered, it’s honed, it’s reinforced. He was the way he was, and he had stopped fighting that a long time ago. “To thine own self be true,” wrote the Bard, and the Bard was never wrong.
The day was promising to get only worse from that morning coffee. Cases piled up on his desk like regrets. His secretary was starting to truly hate him for facing all the clients and the phone calls alone. But he couldn’t get back to the work. Not yet. The thirteen days weren’t over. But he needed to hear something good, something light, and so he called her after breakfast. But she was still asleep and hungover. He called after lunch, but she was busy. And again after an evening meeting his secretary ambushed him with, he called, and again his call rang and rang and choked away. Just when he thought it was time to try and reimagine the day without her smile in it, she sent him a message: “Sorry busy meet tonight still? Want to see you ;)”
He laughed with equal measure delight and disgust. The former because she was still a part of his day, and the latter at the ease with which she plucked his heart strings, the callous “;)” with which she sent needles into his patient flesh. He wondered again, do pretty girls attend a secret night school that teaches them the art of man-manipulation?
She wanted him to come see a movie, and said come early, come at five thirty. He arrived with a few minutes to spare. It had stopped raining but the threat of it hung dark and brooding above, and all the mice were huddled under awnings and inside the damp, musty indoors. He bought a muffin and a coffee and sat out on the stairs leading up to the theatre. For once the city smelled clean and fresh and happy. It wasn’t true, he knew that, but he was grateful for the momentary easing of his cynicism.
The muffin should have tasted like blueberries, instead it had the peculiarly non-specific muffinness that these fucking chain coffee shops were so good at concocting. He called it pseudo-food, for people to beaten down to bother asking for more. He threw it away and watched the local pack of dogs fight over it. Truth of the world laid bare, he thought.
His stomach filled with ice and apprehension. That’s how he knew she had arrived. His body always knew before he did. It filled with that sick, anticipatory mixture of fear and lust and a little bit of what might have been called love, once.
The rains returned the next day, with eagerness and vigor. They slapped against the windows like children begging him to come out and play. And so he met them halfway. Standing out on the balcony with his morning coffee getting diluted by the rain plinking in. He smiled wet smiles, and brushed the happy drops off his eyes. The world below him was rushed and potholed, and soaked and miserable. Up here, the world hissed with pleasure, and the coffee was good.
He hadn’t called her back yet, he was proud of that. Silly thing to be proud of, but he wasn’t very good at waiting, playing out the game like he should. An old girlfriend had told him he gave too much too easily, that was why people found it easy to break his heart. Of course, she said this just before doing a damn fine job of it herself. But he found it hard to hate her for it. The smile of hers nestled in his arms was still visual poetry, and the memories of her in bed, wearing nothing but his tie…People like her never understood, that the heart is never broken, it’s tempered, it’s honed, it’s reinforced. He was the way he was, and he had stopped fighting that a long time ago. “To thine own self be true,” wrote the Bard, and the Bard was never wrong.
The day was promising to get only worse from that morning coffee. Cases piled up on his desk like regrets. His secretary was starting to truly hate him for facing all the clients and the phone calls alone. But he couldn’t get back to the work. Not yet. The thirteen days weren’t over. But he needed to hear something good, something light, and so he called her after breakfast. But she was still asleep and hungover. He called after lunch, but she was busy. And again after an evening meeting his secretary ambushed him with, he called, and again his call rang and rang and choked away. Just when he thought it was time to try and reimagine the day without her smile in it, she sent him a message: “Sorry busy meet tonight still? Want to see you ;)”
He laughed with equal measure delight and disgust. The former because she was still a part of his day, and the latter at the ease with which she plucked his heart strings, the callous “;)” with which she sent needles into his patient flesh. He wondered again, do pretty girls attend a secret night school that teaches them the art of man-manipulation?
She wanted him to come see a movie, and said come early, come at five thirty. He arrived with a few minutes to spare. It had stopped raining but the threat of it hung dark and brooding above, and all the mice were huddled under awnings and inside the damp, musty indoors. He bought a muffin and a coffee and sat out on the stairs leading up to the theatre. For once the city smelled clean and fresh and happy. It wasn’t true, he knew that, but he was grateful for the momentary easing of his cynicism.
The muffin should have tasted like blueberries, instead it had the peculiarly non-specific muffinness that these fucking chain coffee shops were so good at concocting. He called it pseudo-food, for people to beaten down to bother asking for more. He threw it away and watched the local pack of dogs fight over it. Truth of the world laid bare, he thought.
His stomach filled with ice and apprehension. That’s how he knew she had arrived. His body always knew before he did. It filled with that sick, anticipatory mixture of fear and lust and a little bit of what might have been called love, once.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Untitled Prose
There was no rain the night she called. It had been raining every night, so heavily that the people in the city thought themselves punished for the things they said and did to each other, and to themselves. But the rain didn't care. Or maybe it did. But that night it didn't rain. He was at a birthday party, full of happy people, and really loud music, and really oily food. Cigarette smoke hovered and shuffled around every conversation like the ugly friend with bad breath no one wants to talk to. Ever present, ever unwelcome. Much like his thoughts that evening.
The host and his wife were the sort of people who weren't quite friends yet, but would inevitably be. And they were gracious, and laughed loud and often, taking care to make those around them laugh as well. Good people. He stood against a wall and pretended to listen to the woman talking to him. Despite telling him about her husband, she touched her hair too often, and licked her lips like she was trying to revive them back to moistness. He smiled and tried to keep her gaze, but couldn't. A gaze held too long became an open door with large mat saying "Welcome".
Faking an urgent call from his bladder he headed out towards the mensroom. The restaurant was full of people that he unsaw by habit. No faces standing out, no voices that invited his ear. Just the cacophonous assault of an average Sunday night in Bombay City.
Her message came just as he was washing his hands. But this city had made him lonelier, and he checked his cell phone with hands still wet from the tap. He couldn't stop his heart from leaping out of his mouth and doing a joyous little samba around the bathroom floor. He had been avoiding her, even the thoughts of her that always crept into the abstract sanctity of his dreams. He knew even before he brushed his teeth that morning, that the bullet in that gun, the one that had come screaming at him, represented her.
He read the message. And then read it again. Then he put away his phone and went back to the party. His friends smiled and waved him over and offered him a cigarette. But every exhalation was a thought of her, and what she would look like when he saw her again, and what she would be wearing, and the smile that split her face into a mosaic of laugh lines. Then the hostess came by and dragged them all onto the dance floor again. And they laughed and danced and enjoyed the music and the night.
Then it was time to put the night to bed. He went outside with his friends. One of them needed a lift back to his own car, the other needed someone to go home with. Well, they all did, but tonight was going to be another lonely night for them all. So they smiled, and slapped hands, and headed off.
His friend sat back in the car and lamented the lack of any pretty women at the party, and he agreed with him. Pickings were slim he replied and let his friend continue complaining. And though he himself agreed with every word, his thoughts were swirling around her, and her message on his phone, inviting him to a little do the next evening.
He dropped his friend to his car and drove home, not even listening to any music, which he rarely drove without. He brushed his teeth in the dark, sat and stared at his empty email inbox for a moment. Then he wiped his hands across his face and fell asleep, hoping to dream of her again, even in the abstract.
The host and his wife were the sort of people who weren't quite friends yet, but would inevitably be. And they were gracious, and laughed loud and often, taking care to make those around them laugh as well. Good people. He stood against a wall and pretended to listen to the woman talking to him. Despite telling him about her husband, she touched her hair too often, and licked her lips like she was trying to revive them back to moistness. He smiled and tried to keep her gaze, but couldn't. A gaze held too long became an open door with large mat saying "Welcome".
Faking an urgent call from his bladder he headed out towards the mensroom. The restaurant was full of people that he unsaw by habit. No faces standing out, no voices that invited his ear. Just the cacophonous assault of an average Sunday night in Bombay City.
Her message came just as he was washing his hands. But this city had made him lonelier, and he checked his cell phone with hands still wet from the tap. He couldn't stop his heart from leaping out of his mouth and doing a joyous little samba around the bathroom floor. He had been avoiding her, even the thoughts of her that always crept into the abstract sanctity of his dreams. He knew even before he brushed his teeth that morning, that the bullet in that gun, the one that had come screaming at him, represented her.
He read the message. And then read it again. Then he put away his phone and went back to the party. His friends smiled and waved him over and offered him a cigarette. But every exhalation was a thought of her, and what she would look like when he saw her again, and what she would be wearing, and the smile that split her face into a mosaic of laugh lines. Then the hostess came by and dragged them all onto the dance floor again. And they laughed and danced and enjoyed the music and the night.
Then it was time to put the night to bed. He went outside with his friends. One of them needed a lift back to his own car, the other needed someone to go home with. Well, they all did, but tonight was going to be another lonely night for them all. So they smiled, and slapped hands, and headed off.
His friend sat back in the car and lamented the lack of any pretty women at the party, and he agreed with him. Pickings were slim he replied and let his friend continue complaining. And though he himself agreed with every word, his thoughts were swirling around her, and her message on his phone, inviting him to a little do the next evening.
He dropped his friend to his car and drove home, not even listening to any music, which he rarely drove without. He brushed his teeth in the dark, sat and stared at his empty email inbox for a moment. Then he wiped his hands across his face and fell asleep, hoping to dream of her again, even in the abstract.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Take Me Away
Take me away, from here. Take me somewhere, where people can see promos like the ones for "Kambakht Ishq" and know that the film is in a word - pointless. Where a film like that doesn't get the biggest opening in the history of Indian cinema (if that's even true. I wouldn't be surprised if they've just made that bit of news up). What's the point of coming out of a film that looks like trash, sounds like trash, and saying "Wow, that really was trash!"
Take me away, from here. Take me to where the lilacs aren't coated with dust, and the roses wait a day before they decay. Take me to a place where the woman of my dreams sits, waiting for me to find her there. Where the monsoon never goes too far away, and never shouts and floods, but pitter patters away at my window, like the sound of a conversation with a dear friend.
I saw a pretty girl smile an empty smile today when they asked her the questions. I saw her looking at me with the ghosts of tears flitting across her eyes, but even then she kept the mask on. She can never be real, because they don't want her to be. They want her to be who they wish to see, and the strain is drowning her. Pretty soon, the facade will be all that remains. And the pretty girl, with those ghostly tears, and her quiet giggle will be gone. Another victim of the flashing light assassins of Bombay City.
Take me where the words dance around me, laughing as I chase them, and they, eager to be caught, fall into my arms and show me how to paint an empty page the way I see it painted in my soul. Take me where the words love me back. And I can write for hours, and it be good. Where the words come faster than my fingers can move, and my fingers move faster than a hummingbird's wings.
Take me where all the news is good and the weather is fine. Where the city I live in doesn't smell like excreta and ejaculate and effluvia. Where there's no traffic because everyone walks, and everyone walks because there's no rush, and there's no rush because we love ourselves just fine just now. Where the hugs last for longer than a second, and the kisses actually touch flesh.
Where beauty goes deeper than the skin, and skin is all we wear.
Take me away, take me away. Take me away, to where your smiles are, and where your secrets are on the wall. Where your go to put away your mask, and take off your makeup, and settle into the you no one ever sees. When you write in your diary and repeat all the gestures and idiosyncrasies you saw today. When you make those sounds, you make them for me. And then we share a silence together.
Take me there, love. Take me a thousand kisses deep, and drowning.
Take me away, from here. Take me to where the lilacs aren't coated with dust, and the roses wait a day before they decay. Take me to a place where the woman of my dreams sits, waiting for me to find her there. Where the monsoon never goes too far away, and never shouts and floods, but pitter patters away at my window, like the sound of a conversation with a dear friend.
I saw a pretty girl smile an empty smile today when they asked her the questions. I saw her looking at me with the ghosts of tears flitting across her eyes, but even then she kept the mask on. She can never be real, because they don't want her to be. They want her to be who they wish to see, and the strain is drowning her. Pretty soon, the facade will be all that remains. And the pretty girl, with those ghostly tears, and her quiet giggle will be gone. Another victim of the flashing light assassins of Bombay City.
Take me where the words dance around me, laughing as I chase them, and they, eager to be caught, fall into my arms and show me how to paint an empty page the way I see it painted in my soul. Take me where the words love me back. And I can write for hours, and it be good. Where the words come faster than my fingers can move, and my fingers move faster than a hummingbird's wings.
Take me where all the news is good and the weather is fine. Where the city I live in doesn't smell like excreta and ejaculate and effluvia. Where there's no traffic because everyone walks, and everyone walks because there's no rush, and there's no rush because we love ourselves just fine just now. Where the hugs last for longer than a second, and the kisses actually touch flesh.
Where beauty goes deeper than the skin, and skin is all we wear.
Take me away, take me away. Take me away, to where your smiles are, and where your secrets are on the wall. Where your go to put away your mask, and take off your makeup, and settle into the you no one ever sees. When you write in your diary and repeat all the gestures and idiosyncrasies you saw today. When you make those sounds, you make them for me. And then we share a silence together.
Take me there, love. Take me a thousand kisses deep, and drowning.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Me Love Me Some Monday
So begins another week of mishaps, misadventures, and hopefully, monsoon. Had a lovely weekend that began with the premiere of “X-Men Origins - Wolverine” in Bombay. Had the movie been about any other comic book character than Wolverine, and of course, Batman, I wouldn’t have cared so much. But to take one of the truly iconic figures in Comicdom, a character that is by far the most complex, tragic, dare I say it, Shakespearean of all Marvel heroes and pretty much piss all over him is all that Hugh Jackman has accomplished.
The script writers clearly did no research beyond some basic comic catch-up, ignored the main elements of the character’s personality matrix, completely distorted the man’s history, and in the end basically made a Bollywood melodrama. It was pathetic. Hugh Jackman, for whom I have an immense cinematic fondness, has revealed to me just how Broadway his sensibilities really are. People tend to forget that the man did an entire Broadway production in New York, singing and dancing to showtunes. The fact that he is a brilliant dancer and a fine singer are things he should be proud of. But please, keep your nancy sensibilities away from a character like Wolverine. But the damage is done, the shitty film made, and fans all over the world in a state of apoplectic rage. Well done, Hugh. Well done indeed.
The only thing that saved the night from being a completely disaster was the ray of sunshine sitting beside me. Had it not been for her, I would have come out of the theatre sulking and bad-tempered. As it turned out, she got more pissed off than me at the film, which I found instantly endearing.
From there we decided to ditch the group and share some coffee and conversation at a nearby after-hours spot. Again the trickster gods had a laugh at my expense by seating the world’s most pathetic male specimen directly behind me. Picture a man with a face like a starving rat and the voice of a whiny twelve year-old. This dumb shit was sitting beside a completely charming woman with an American accent complaining about the Indian Cricket team’s destruction at the T20 World Cup. She mentioned that the Pakistani team was doing well, good for them. And that was it! The fellow starting shouting obscenities and saying things like “Fuck those pricks. I wouldn’t piss on a Pakistani even if he was on fire!”
No one in the place said anything. My own impulse to evict the man out the front door was handcuffed by my date, who insisted that I behave myself. Which I regretably did. I’m disgusted by people like that man. Who hate so strongly for a reason as juvenile as a sport. And then have the nerve to get angry when they encounter hatred and racism in places like Australia. Hatred breeds only hatred. That is how the universe works. Whatever you transmit into the world is returned upon you tenfold. That asshole in the bar, one day, is going to get the holy hell beaten out of him by running his motor-mouth in a place where not everyone is so polite, or with a girl who abhors confrontations. And I pray I’m there to at least witness it.
There’s an article in the Hindustan Times today about the hypocrisy of racism. How we Indians can get so angry at a few brainless Australians beating up our fellow countrymen that we completely forgo all logic and reason and start tarnishing the entire continent of pretty decent, laid back people with the same negative brush. But then look at how we treat those Africans who are either working or studying in cities like Bombay. They get treated like thieves or criminals or worse just for being black. Nevermind the fact that Africans and Indians were the most enslaved people during the Time of Colonization. Let’s hate them!! Pathetic.
Saturday was all about green tea and my new stack of books. From which I can thoroughly recommend Geoff Dyer’s “Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi” and Milan Kundera’s “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.”
Sunday was another great day spent at the Del Italia in Juhu, Bombay. For a brunch that lasted almost six hours. Good food, good wine, great music, perfect weather, pretty women, pithy conversation - I am one contented son-of-a-gun.
And we come to Monday. A monday that began with great weather and the greater urge to be creative. Hence my current blog entry. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall go sketch something or the other. This is how I wait for my films to begin, or release, or just stop breaking my heart. I write, I sketch, I dance around the town in search of women who wouldn’t mind dancing around me for a song. There’s a better life out there, but I’m quite happy with mine.
The script writers clearly did no research beyond some basic comic catch-up, ignored the main elements of the character’s personality matrix, completely distorted the man’s history, and in the end basically made a Bollywood melodrama. It was pathetic. Hugh Jackman, for whom I have an immense cinematic fondness, has revealed to me just how Broadway his sensibilities really are. People tend to forget that the man did an entire Broadway production in New York, singing and dancing to showtunes. The fact that he is a brilliant dancer and a fine singer are things he should be proud of. But please, keep your nancy sensibilities away from a character like Wolverine. But the damage is done, the shitty film made, and fans all over the world in a state of apoplectic rage. Well done, Hugh. Well done indeed.
The only thing that saved the night from being a completely disaster was the ray of sunshine sitting beside me. Had it not been for her, I would have come out of the theatre sulking and bad-tempered. As it turned out, she got more pissed off than me at the film, which I found instantly endearing.
From there we decided to ditch the group and share some coffee and conversation at a nearby after-hours spot. Again the trickster gods had a laugh at my expense by seating the world’s most pathetic male specimen directly behind me. Picture a man with a face like a starving rat and the voice of a whiny twelve year-old. This dumb shit was sitting beside a completely charming woman with an American accent complaining about the Indian Cricket team’s destruction at the T20 World Cup. She mentioned that the Pakistani team was doing well, good for them. And that was it! The fellow starting shouting obscenities and saying things like “Fuck those pricks. I wouldn’t piss on a Pakistani even if he was on fire!”
No one in the place said anything. My own impulse to evict the man out the front door was handcuffed by my date, who insisted that I behave myself. Which I regretably did. I’m disgusted by people like that man. Who hate so strongly for a reason as juvenile as a sport. And then have the nerve to get angry when they encounter hatred and racism in places like Australia. Hatred breeds only hatred. That is how the universe works. Whatever you transmit into the world is returned upon you tenfold. That asshole in the bar, one day, is going to get the holy hell beaten out of him by running his motor-mouth in a place where not everyone is so polite, or with a girl who abhors confrontations. And I pray I’m there to at least witness it.
There’s an article in the Hindustan Times today about the hypocrisy of racism. How we Indians can get so angry at a few brainless Australians beating up our fellow countrymen that we completely forgo all logic and reason and start tarnishing the entire continent of pretty decent, laid back people with the same negative brush. But then look at how we treat those Africans who are either working or studying in cities like Bombay. They get treated like thieves or criminals or worse just for being black. Nevermind the fact that Africans and Indians were the most enslaved people during the Time of Colonization. Let’s hate them!! Pathetic.
Saturday was all about green tea and my new stack of books. From which I can thoroughly recommend Geoff Dyer’s “Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi” and Milan Kundera’s “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.”
Sunday was another great day spent at the Del Italia in Juhu, Bombay. For a brunch that lasted almost six hours. Good food, good wine, great music, perfect weather, pretty women, pithy conversation - I am one contented son-of-a-gun.
And we come to Monday. A monday that began with great weather and the greater urge to be creative. Hence my current blog entry. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall go sketch something or the other. This is how I wait for my films to begin, or release, or just stop breaking my heart. I write, I sketch, I dance around the town in search of women who wouldn’t mind dancing around me for a song. There’s a better life out there, but I’m quite happy with mine.
Shiney
I wasn’t going to touch this issue. I wait for things to strike me before I write. And these last two years, things have been striking me ever more intermittently. Perhaps I’m getting lazy, or perhaps it’s merely the lack of exercise I give my talents. But the second I saw Shiney Ahuja on the news with the headline saying “rape” I wanted to write something. Not in his defense, or in condemnation. Merely my thoughts on the way this whole circus has erupted around him.
None of us know whether the man is guilty (of the worst crime this side of infanticide) or not. None of us except for the man himself and the maid. What we know for certain is that they did indeed have sex. The man’s admitted to it (which is another entirely more convoluted sociological/psychological discussion - “why the hell would a good-looking actor, with fans, need to sleep with a maid?”), claimed she gave him consent. But when the socio-economic divide between them is so skewed, what does the word “consent” imply in that situation? Did she initiate, did she seduce him, did he imagine consent from her silence or lack of resistance? The media, of course, is interested in none of these ambiguities because they have headlines to sell. Good for them.
What is interesting however is that the initial reports from the police suggested that the maid’s physical state had no visible signs of forced entry. She claims she was bound and gagged, and thus must have struggled, but there were no signs of welts on her hands from the binding, or bruises around her mouth from the gagging etc. So why now do they now claim that there IS evidence of rape.
Then there’s the rather glaring absurdity in our constituition that the woman’s word is always given more weight in such matters. What about evidence? What about testimony? What about being innocent until PROVEN guilty? Rape is among the most heinous of crimes in my opinion. But a law that unilaterally sides with the woman is a law that doesn’t even understand the complex variability of sex amongst human beings. I had an acquaintance in college who was accused of rape by a girl that had completely consensual sex with him after a party. However she wanted a relationship and he thought it had just been a one-night stand. She cried rape. He didn’t go to prison, but got expelled from university and his reputation forever tarnished. In India, he might have ended up in jail.
Is that not a possibility here? Can it not seem conceivable to us that Shiney and his maid were having consensual sex, she thought it would lead to some monetary gains for her, he denied her what she felt he owed her, and she cried rape? I read in the newspaper yesterday about a journalist who claims that the police are not looking at the matter at all from the angle of blackmail. Shiney is a successful actor (not recently sure, but better than most in this dream-destroying town) and there seems to be an unsavory character in the form of the maid’s boyfriend.
And while I understand, and support to an extent, the zealotry of seeing everything from ther perspective of the victim, I must remind myself, that people are stranger, deeper, crazier, more twisted up inside, than they appear to be on the surface. I hope justice is done diligently and honestly. I hope they stop telling us that Shiney is being held in a cell but receiving better food and more cups of tea because of his “status”. Find the truth. Forget the pageantry.
None of us know whether the man is guilty (of the worst crime this side of infanticide) or not. None of us except for the man himself and the maid. What we know for certain is that they did indeed have sex. The man’s admitted to it (which is another entirely more convoluted sociological/psychological discussion - “why the hell would a good-looking actor, with fans, need to sleep with a maid?”), claimed she gave him consent. But when the socio-economic divide between them is so skewed, what does the word “consent” imply in that situation? Did she initiate, did she seduce him, did he imagine consent from her silence or lack of resistance? The media, of course, is interested in none of these ambiguities because they have headlines to sell. Good for them.
What is interesting however is that the initial reports from the police suggested that the maid’s physical state had no visible signs of forced entry. She claims she was bound and gagged, and thus must have struggled, but there were no signs of welts on her hands from the binding, or bruises around her mouth from the gagging etc. So why now do they now claim that there IS evidence of rape.
Then there’s the rather glaring absurdity in our constituition that the woman’s word is always given more weight in such matters. What about evidence? What about testimony? What about being innocent until PROVEN guilty? Rape is among the most heinous of crimes in my opinion. But a law that unilaterally sides with the woman is a law that doesn’t even understand the complex variability of sex amongst human beings. I had an acquaintance in college who was accused of rape by a girl that had completely consensual sex with him after a party. However she wanted a relationship and he thought it had just been a one-night stand. She cried rape. He didn’t go to prison, but got expelled from university and his reputation forever tarnished. In India, he might have ended up in jail.
Is that not a possibility here? Can it not seem conceivable to us that Shiney and his maid were having consensual sex, she thought it would lead to some monetary gains for her, he denied her what she felt he owed her, and she cried rape? I read in the newspaper yesterday about a journalist who claims that the police are not looking at the matter at all from the angle of blackmail. Shiney is a successful actor (not recently sure, but better than most in this dream-destroying town) and there seems to be an unsavory character in the form of the maid’s boyfriend.
And while I understand, and support to an extent, the zealotry of seeing everything from ther perspective of the victim, I must remind myself, that people are stranger, deeper, crazier, more twisted up inside, than they appear to be on the surface. I hope justice is done diligently and honestly. I hope they stop telling us that Shiney is being held in a cell but receiving better food and more cups of tea because of his “status”. Find the truth. Forget the pageantry.
Blame God
The battle against the Arch-Daemon Idleness continues, amigos. The dreaded strike has passed, and we have survived. But picking up the pieces of our film in this new post-apocalyptic wasteland where super-mutants in the form of HUGE films roam, cannibalizing and tormenting the smaller films, is proving to be harder than I anticipated. Of course, that is only because the people that own the film, Big Pictures, are proving too timid to come out and face even the weakest of these Super-Mutants head on. They may have a point saying that we cannot compete with the likes of “Kambakht Ishq” (I flipping refuse to spell it with multiple k’s) and “New York”. But they even shy of releasing “Sikandar” in the weeks after these monsters releases, in case these films prove to be huge hits and their second weeks are as busy as the first.
What happened to faith in one’s own film. There’s strategizing, and then there’s saying “Let’s wait till the other army lays down their weapons, then we’ll attack.”
I suppose, for prudence’s sake, I should be a little more tactful in my blog, but they can blame God, he blew breath in my lungs. This is who I am, and this is what I think about this situation. Any wise person, respects and listens to criticism, so I’m hoping Big Pictures is paying attention. Class is in session, children. Get off the ground, stop crying, pick up a rock, and hit the bully right between the eyes.
Meanwhile, during this summer of discontent, I have moved on to other projects. Now I never speak of my work until it’s ready for releasing, but they are all exciting scripts that I’m hoping come together soon. For in this time of recession and tightening purse strings, everything seems to be delayed or, Goddess forfend, shelved indefinitely. So I sit and I pray, and then I get dressed to go out, and I play. Lord how I play. Even though I’d rather be working, I’m learning the art of staying contented in the moment. We cannot control our lives beyond a point. But we can be adaptable and adventurous enough to roll with whatever our way comes. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, your hands can’t touch what your eyes can’t see. Only I float like a will’o'wisp and slap like a tiger. Your eyes can’t see what’s always floating higher.
Feels good to be back on the blog. Internet up and running, green tea simmering, morning breeze free of the stench, and the Doors lighting my speakers on fire. Damn it feels good to be me. Hope you are all feeling that spring of contentment bubbling up within yourselves. Don’t walk like you own the world, walk like you don’t care who does.
What happened to faith in one’s own film. There’s strategizing, and then there’s saying “Let’s wait till the other army lays down their weapons, then we’ll attack.”
I suppose, for prudence’s sake, I should be a little more tactful in my blog, but they can blame God, he blew breath in my lungs. This is who I am, and this is what I think about this situation. Any wise person, respects and listens to criticism, so I’m hoping Big Pictures is paying attention. Class is in session, children. Get off the ground, stop crying, pick up a rock, and hit the bully right between the eyes.
Meanwhile, during this summer of discontent, I have moved on to other projects. Now I never speak of my work until it’s ready for releasing, but they are all exciting scripts that I’m hoping come together soon. For in this time of recession and tightening purse strings, everything seems to be delayed or, Goddess forfend, shelved indefinitely. So I sit and I pray, and then I get dressed to go out, and I play. Lord how I play. Even though I’d rather be working, I’m learning the art of staying contented in the moment. We cannot control our lives beyond a point. But we can be adaptable and adventurous enough to roll with whatever our way comes. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, your hands can’t touch what your eyes can’t see. Only I float like a will’o'wisp and slap like a tiger. Your eyes can’t see what’s always floating higher.
Feels good to be back on the blog. Internet up and running, green tea simmering, morning breeze free of the stench, and the Doors lighting my speakers on fire. Damn it feels good to be me. Hope you are all feeling that spring of contentment bubbling up within yourselves. Don’t walk like you own the world, walk like you don’t care who does.
Poor Poor Susan Boyle
They just won’t let her be will they? They’ll break her heart, and the hearts of everyone that wishes her success. Because she’s got nothing to offer them but her voice. And in this MTV video world - that means nothing at all. The poor woman’s gotten herself examined by a psychiatrist and he said not to continue. But she’s so close to the dream, how can she stop now? So she’s sequestered herself until the finals.
I wrote out against Reality TV in one of my previous posts and that post got a lot of replies from readers. Readers who mostly agreed with me, that such programs showcase all that’s base and banal and bawdy and raise it to the level of culture and art. One reader commented on this show called “Splitsvilla”. I had never watched this show before, being severely allergic to the television. But I made myself watch it, so forgive me the following profanity - WHAT THE FUCK???
Is this the kind of behaviour women should be condoning and encouraging and lusting for in men? Is this the best we men can do to woo worthy women? I try to think not, but every weekend party I attend, I find that ninety percent of the people I see around me validate and personify this degrading, demoralizing kind of social behaviour.
And here’s Susan Boyle - wishing her poor Scottish self stayed in that church. As my landlady in New York would say, “Girl, you done messed yourself up.” You stepped into the limelight, and the limelight’s made of acid. It leaves nothing of you behind. There are psychologist’s who have commented that her mental state is alarmingly fraught and fragile with all the negative press she’s been getting after being bullied by journalists in a hotel. You know what’ll be worse for this woman than losing the show? Winning it. Then they’ll shine a light on her life and leave it on. A bright white merciless halogen on everything she was and everything she will now have to become.
I often wonder that none of us who want to bask in the limelight, really ever realize just how high the cost of fame and success really is. And all of us have a basic desire for recognition, of being a singular presence in a faceless multitude. But it’s a basic survival instinct in all animals - it’s the one that's unique that get cast out. Should that mean we should stop striving to excel, to better ourselves, to fight our way to center stage? I wish I could say yes. But that’s precisely what my life is all about. Being an actor for me is about the craft, and is about the joy I feel while I’m working. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I want heads to turn when I walk into a room, or the way a girl to stare when she realizes who I am.
But look at Frieda Pinto. No one seems to be saying anything nice about her in India anymore. Everyone I overhear calls her things the poor girl just doesn’t deserve. Look at the Azharudin and Rubina, who will never lead normal lives again. How often will Danny Boyle be able to come and bail them out? How long will their parents be able to pretend to be who they need to be in front of all the cameras pointed their way? What about their friends and family members who probably cared not a whit about them before the stars fell, and now just won’t go away?
Goddess, sometimes, the smartest thing I can do, is stay home, cook myself a nice hot meal and curl up with a book. Some nights, I love the fact that no one knows who I am or what I’m about.
But I’d be lying if I said I can’t wait for that to change!
What complicated creatures we humans be!
I wrote out against Reality TV in one of my previous posts and that post got a lot of replies from readers. Readers who mostly agreed with me, that such programs showcase all that’s base and banal and bawdy and raise it to the level of culture and art. One reader commented on this show called “Splitsvilla”. I had never watched this show before, being severely allergic to the television. But I made myself watch it, so forgive me the following profanity - WHAT THE FUCK???
Is this the kind of behaviour women should be condoning and encouraging and lusting for in men? Is this the best we men can do to woo worthy women? I try to think not, but every weekend party I attend, I find that ninety percent of the people I see around me validate and personify this degrading, demoralizing kind of social behaviour.
And here’s Susan Boyle - wishing her poor Scottish self stayed in that church. As my landlady in New York would say, “Girl, you done messed yourself up.” You stepped into the limelight, and the limelight’s made of acid. It leaves nothing of you behind. There are psychologist’s who have commented that her mental state is alarmingly fraught and fragile with all the negative press she’s been getting after being bullied by journalists in a hotel. You know what’ll be worse for this woman than losing the show? Winning it. Then they’ll shine a light on her life and leave it on. A bright white merciless halogen on everything she was and everything she will now have to become.
I often wonder that none of us who want to bask in the limelight, really ever realize just how high the cost of fame and success really is. And all of us have a basic desire for recognition, of being a singular presence in a faceless multitude. But it’s a basic survival instinct in all animals - it’s the one that's unique that get cast out. Should that mean we should stop striving to excel, to better ourselves, to fight our way to center stage? I wish I could say yes. But that’s precisely what my life is all about. Being an actor for me is about the craft, and is about the joy I feel while I’m working. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I want heads to turn when I walk into a room, or the way a girl to stare when she realizes who I am.
But look at Frieda Pinto. No one seems to be saying anything nice about her in India anymore. Everyone I overhear calls her things the poor girl just doesn’t deserve. Look at the Azharudin and Rubina, who will never lead normal lives again. How often will Danny Boyle be able to come and bail them out? How long will their parents be able to pretend to be who they need to be in front of all the cameras pointed their way? What about their friends and family members who probably cared not a whit about them before the stars fell, and now just won’t go away?
Goddess, sometimes, the smartest thing I can do, is stay home, cook myself a nice hot meal and curl up with a book. Some nights, I love the fact that no one knows who I am or what I’m about.
But I’d be lying if I said I can’t wait for that to change!
What complicated creatures we humans be!
Won't Come Easy
They surge within me like a drowning tide. Pushing against the walls of my mind, calling me down to the empty page, then abandoning me, their laughter drowning out the sounds of traffic outside my window. This city won’t let me sleep tonight. Its whispering its secrets to me, of all the hidden places within the people crawling through its layers, of the wells of joy being drained dry by the unquenchable thirst of the miserable. That noisy beast called Traffic’s horns goring my eardrums, leaving them insensate to the laughter of the children I see around my building.
My neighbor’s little girl smiles and gives me a flower everyday she sees me. She’s comes no higher than my knee and her eyes hold all that I wish to write about. Each time she gives me a flower I feel like an undeserving ogre, but I smile and take it, and keep it next to my books until it withers away. I hear my other neighbor yelling at her servant. She’s always yelling, at the servant, at her children, at the building guards. I never hear her yell at her husband. Her husband with the cloying sweet breath and hands that remind me of the bullies of my childhood. No wonder she takes her anger out on everybody but him. She even tried to yell at me once, but something in my eyes stopped her. She saw through me, for a second she saw past the man and saw the animal, the one we all keep chained inside. But she was yelling at her little daughter, and my animal didn’t like that.
Everyday I wake up praying for the rains to come and wash the dust of this year off of me. And everyday I see the clouds blow past without a single tear shed for us down below. I dream these days more than I usually do. Each dream merges into the next until I’m floating through the nightime sky like in Chagall’s painting - with a yellow goat playing the violin guiding me through.
I’m an addict in a prison made from my addiction, I’m a psychedelic prince in a monochromatic world. I’m the last of the poets lost in a crowd, I’m the unfulfilled wish, the dying dream, the undying desire. I’m a Kings of Leon CD playing while making love. I am the last page of the book before your eyes fall asleep. The best cup of coffee left until it got cold. I’m all the words I wish I could write.
Words don’t come so easy no more. They avoid me like disappointed parents who caught me with a joint and a smile. They look at me like my dog does after I yell at him.
I’m….done for tonight…
My neighbor’s little girl smiles and gives me a flower everyday she sees me. She’s comes no higher than my knee and her eyes hold all that I wish to write about. Each time she gives me a flower I feel like an undeserving ogre, but I smile and take it, and keep it next to my books until it withers away. I hear my other neighbor yelling at her servant. She’s always yelling, at the servant, at her children, at the building guards. I never hear her yell at her husband. Her husband with the cloying sweet breath and hands that remind me of the bullies of my childhood. No wonder she takes her anger out on everybody but him. She even tried to yell at me once, but something in my eyes stopped her. She saw through me, for a second she saw past the man and saw the animal, the one we all keep chained inside. But she was yelling at her little daughter, and my animal didn’t like that.
Everyday I wake up praying for the rains to come and wash the dust of this year off of me. And everyday I see the clouds blow past without a single tear shed for us down below. I dream these days more than I usually do. Each dream merges into the next until I’m floating through the nightime sky like in Chagall’s painting - with a yellow goat playing the violin guiding me through.
I’m an addict in a prison made from my addiction, I’m a psychedelic prince in a monochromatic world. I’m the last of the poets lost in a crowd, I’m the unfulfilled wish, the dying dream, the undying desire. I’m a Kings of Leon CD playing while making love. I am the last page of the book before your eyes fall asleep. The best cup of coffee left until it got cold. I’m all the words I wish I could write.
Words don’t come so easy no more. They avoid me like disappointed parents who caught me with a joint and a smile. They look at me like my dog does after I yell at him.
I’m….done for tonight…
Sunday Spent Working
Today was my favorite kind of day - a work day. I absolutely, unequivocally, psychotically love my job. From early morning until now I’ve been at Mehboob Studios in Bandra, shooting there for the first time, for the last two days of my second film entitled “Mirch”. There is a very infectious camaraderie on the sets I’ve been on. I’ve heard that that’s not always the case, and countless people have amused me with their anecdotes about directors and actors who have been real tyrants and difficult to please, and I suppose if luck holds, I’ll probably end up working with those people sooner or later.
But not today. Today I got paid to make out with an actress. And before you think that’s all fun and games, try to imagine yourself kissing someone surrounding by at least twenty people all watching, gauging, measuring intently everything from your level of passion to the position of your bodies with relation to the lights, your expressions, your angles, your movements….
But the actress was a lovely girl who giggled her way through the entire day, and I’m a man most comfortable in front of the camera. Even so, it was an interesting experience trying to use all that I have mastered in the amorous arts and failing miserably because of things like : blocking her light, her hair blocking my face, my head bouncing out of frame. But the director was patient, the actress a darling, and the crew a highly amused crowd. So the day passed successfully and we finished in time for most of them to get back home and switch on the IPL finals.
Me…I came home to write to you and to drink my first cup of green tea of the day.
It occurs to me that today could have transpired very differently had the actress been any less comfortable with herself and with me than she was. I’ve become aware recently of how hypocritical a stance most actors and directors will take on the subject of physical contact between lovers. I’m not even going to talk about a proper sex scene such as the legendary ones in films such as “Last Tango in Paris” and “Sea of Love” and many others. Just kissing sends people blushing and retreating off the sets, or turn down a script that, but for the a few moments of justified passion, would ignite their careers.
But I suppose it will take me sometime to readjust to the Indian ideologies concerning physical contact on screen. I’ve been corrupted by the decadent West, I suppose.
Don’t we kiss in real life? As often as we possibly can, right? So what’s the big deal? Oh well, at least I’m uninhibited and true to my art. That’ll do for now I suppose.
But not today. Today I got paid to make out with an actress. And before you think that’s all fun and games, try to imagine yourself kissing someone surrounding by at least twenty people all watching, gauging, measuring intently everything from your level of passion to the position of your bodies with relation to the lights, your expressions, your angles, your movements….
But the actress was a lovely girl who giggled her way through the entire day, and I’m a man most comfortable in front of the camera. Even so, it was an interesting experience trying to use all that I have mastered in the amorous arts and failing miserably because of things like : blocking her light, her hair blocking my face, my head bouncing out of frame. But the director was patient, the actress a darling, and the crew a highly amused crowd. So the day passed successfully and we finished in time for most of them to get back home and switch on the IPL finals.
Me…I came home to write to you and to drink my first cup of green tea of the day.
It occurs to me that today could have transpired very differently had the actress been any less comfortable with herself and with me than she was. I’ve become aware recently of how hypocritical a stance most actors and directors will take on the subject of physical contact between lovers. I’m not even going to talk about a proper sex scene such as the legendary ones in films such as “Last Tango in Paris” and “Sea of Love” and many others. Just kissing sends people blushing and retreating off the sets, or turn down a script that, but for the a few moments of justified passion, would ignite their careers.
But I suppose it will take me sometime to readjust to the Indian ideologies concerning physical contact on screen. I’ve been corrupted by the decadent West, I suppose.
Don’t we kiss in real life? As often as we possibly can, right? So what’s the big deal? Oh well, at least I’m uninhibited and true to my art. That’ll do for now I suppose.
Bombay
I taste
Smile upon your lips
Ashes in your mouth
Calling me down
Down into the bedroom
You shake
Like I’m a blizzard
Bearing you down
Down into forever
We make
All that’s forbidden
All that was needed
Rags upon the midden
Tangled up in shadows
Dancing out the window.
Smile upon your lips
Ashes in your mouth
Calling me down
Down into the bedroom
You shake
Like I’m a blizzard
Bearing you down
Down into forever
We make
All that’s forbidden
All that was needed
Rags upon the midden
Tangled up in shadows
Dancing out the window.
Waiting for a Star to Fall
It’s almost exactly a year now since I started shooting for my first feature film Sikandar. Before that I was wandering the vast wastelands of New York and London, begging for acting job handouts. Going to audition after audition, where I was told before I even got a chance to read for the part, that I didn’t “look right”. Too tall, too big, too brown, too Indian, not Indian enough, not white enough, not good looking enough et all. In three years I took more rejection than most people amass in a lifetime.
But a very great teacher named James Price told me that in New York before I even took my first step down this path. The great ones weren’t necessarily better than the others. The great ones are the ones that are just too damn stubborn to quit.
I was so excited to get a part in “Sikandar”. It was a great script, with a wonderfully odd and intelligent director, Piyush Jha, and best of all, it had a place for me in it! It’s strange to chase a single dream for years without any idea really what the dream actually entails. I’ve known I wanted to be an actor ever since I was 9 years old and saw the movie “On the Waterfront” with Marlon Brando. But you can want something bad enough that isn’t right for you. “Sikandar” showed me how much the life of an actor fits me. I love the research, the preparation, the rehearsals, the readings, the long conversations with cast members on set with really, really terrible tea. I love sitting on set and chatting with the assistant directors during those rare moments of calm.
But the film wrapped and now here I am, back to waiting. This time for it to release. This Strike is an important step in the evolution of the Indian Film Industry. I know that. Really. We need to come to a better business model on how films are made and distributed in this country. We cannot continue to function in this nepotistic, chamchagiri-filled system. Change is important.
I’m just hoping change happens soon. Because as much work as I’m doing now after “Sikandar” and I’ve been blessed with more than my share. My dream hasn’t become a reality until that first audience member pays for their ticket and sits down in that seat next to someone they care about with a big bucket of popcorn and the lights dim and the projector beams dance with the dust motes all the way to the screen and paste my mug there. I don’t know whether people will like me or think me the worst thing to hit the screen in Goddess knows how long.
But the truth is - I don’t care. I made it here. And no one can take that from me.
I hope who ever’s reading this gets a chance to watch “Sikandar” in theatres real soon. It’s a small film but a good film, with a lot of heart.
Watch it! And let me know what you thought. Even if it’s the digital version of a tomato in the face!
But a very great teacher named James Price told me that in New York before I even took my first step down this path. The great ones weren’t necessarily better than the others. The great ones are the ones that are just too damn stubborn to quit.
I was so excited to get a part in “Sikandar”. It was a great script, with a wonderfully odd and intelligent director, Piyush Jha, and best of all, it had a place for me in it! It’s strange to chase a single dream for years without any idea really what the dream actually entails. I’ve known I wanted to be an actor ever since I was 9 years old and saw the movie “On the Waterfront” with Marlon Brando. But you can want something bad enough that isn’t right for you. “Sikandar” showed me how much the life of an actor fits me. I love the research, the preparation, the rehearsals, the readings, the long conversations with cast members on set with really, really terrible tea. I love sitting on set and chatting with the assistant directors during those rare moments of calm.
But the film wrapped and now here I am, back to waiting. This time for it to release. This Strike is an important step in the evolution of the Indian Film Industry. I know that. Really. We need to come to a better business model on how films are made and distributed in this country. We cannot continue to function in this nepotistic, chamchagiri-filled system. Change is important.
I’m just hoping change happens soon. Because as much work as I’m doing now after “Sikandar” and I’ve been blessed with more than my share. My dream hasn’t become a reality until that first audience member pays for their ticket and sits down in that seat next to someone they care about with a big bucket of popcorn and the lights dim and the projector beams dance with the dust motes all the way to the screen and paste my mug there. I don’t know whether people will like me or think me the worst thing to hit the screen in Goddess knows how long.
But the truth is - I don’t care. I made it here. And no one can take that from me.
I hope who ever’s reading this gets a chance to watch “Sikandar” in theatres real soon. It’s a small film but a good film, with a lot of heart.
Watch it! And let me know what you thought. Even if it’s the digital version of a tomato in the face!
Entertainment News - There's an Oxymoron
Over the last, almost two weeks, I’ve seen the same headline on the News tab I keep on my homepage - “Abhi-Ash not moving out.” Then it switches to say that they are moving back, then back to not. Or which lucky man is getting naughty with Priyanka Chopra. First it’s one then the other then yet another.
I don’t give a rat’s heiny whether they are moving out or not. I don’t care whether their house is complete or not or where it’s located. I do not care whether they hold bacchanals in their home that put Caligula to shame. I don’t care!!!!! Do any of you? Leave these people’s private lives private.
Tell us how the economy is affecting the delayed talks between the multiplex owners and the producers. Tell us how the psychology of greed and control are affecting the way in which movies are being made and released these days. Tell us how the recent atmosphere of over-inflated production costs, outrageous actor fees, have resulted in those of us that make and act in better, smaller, more intelligent films are being forced to put our lives on perpetual hold whilst these fat cats whisk about in their foreign cars in between giving each other a finger and a fuck off. That’s Entertainment News.
I tire of this celebrity-centric culture of ours, where journalists don’t even bother checking facts or verifying sources. A culture where many of us would rather read through the Bombay Times than the actual newspaper. Where journalists basically just write whatever they want. This country despite all the celebrity campaigners and their over-hyped public service announcements had some of the lowest voter turn-out this year in many places including around Bombay. That shows how much impact celebrities have on issues that really matter.
Tell me more about why Mamooty was denied a visa into the U.S.A. That’s news. That’s a real indication of how xenophobic and closed the borders of America (a country I spent nearly eight happy years in) are becoming.
But saying all this isn’t going to magically turn our news providers into better, more sincere and professional services. This is just my way of exhaling my morning paper irritations out into the ether.
Now I feel good. Time for a cup of green tea and a nice cold shower.
I don’t give a rat’s heiny whether they are moving out or not. I don’t care whether their house is complete or not or where it’s located. I do not care whether they hold bacchanals in their home that put Caligula to shame. I don’t care!!!!! Do any of you? Leave these people’s private lives private.
Tell us how the economy is affecting the delayed talks between the multiplex owners and the producers. Tell us how the psychology of greed and control are affecting the way in which movies are being made and released these days. Tell us how the recent atmosphere of over-inflated production costs, outrageous actor fees, have resulted in those of us that make and act in better, smaller, more intelligent films are being forced to put our lives on perpetual hold whilst these fat cats whisk about in their foreign cars in between giving each other a finger and a fuck off. That’s Entertainment News.
I tire of this celebrity-centric culture of ours, where journalists don’t even bother checking facts or verifying sources. A culture where many of us would rather read through the Bombay Times than the actual newspaper. Where journalists basically just write whatever they want. This country despite all the celebrity campaigners and their over-hyped public service announcements had some of the lowest voter turn-out this year in many places including around Bombay. That shows how much impact celebrities have on issues that really matter.
Tell me more about why Mamooty was denied a visa into the U.S.A. That’s news. That’s a real indication of how xenophobic and closed the borders of America (a country I spent nearly eight happy years in) are becoming.
But saying all this isn’t going to magically turn our news providers into better, more sincere and professional services. This is just my way of exhaling my morning paper irritations out into the ether.
Now I feel good. Time for a cup of green tea and a nice cold shower.
Thursday
We knew where we wanted to be come the first rays of dawn. But we tarried a while, enjoying the slow, spiralling dance towards one another.
It began with coffee. Stale, over-creamed, under roasted coffee in a cafe where everybody around us held nothing but empty hope and dirty cups in their hands. I didn’t even know how she liked her coffee. But I knew I wanted to know. I wanted to know down to the amount of time she likes to set it aside to brew and steam and fill her with the promise of its aroma. I watched her order. The slow bloom of her smile as she met the waitress’ eyes, the slight shift in her shoulders when she turned back towards me. The widening of her smile and how she leaned across to play with the napkin on my side of the table, her fingers tracing patterns around my left hand.
She spoke of things in a way that made them instantly sensual and vibrant. The way she described this city of hers that I was new to. The music in her car and how each song was picked so that even traffic couldn’t shake loose her happiness. She laughed, and it was a sound that echoed and reverberated in the deepest, quietest parts of me. It seemed to reach across and demand an answer from my throat, like a flamenco dancer in her last pose, drinking in her well-deserved applause.
Our coffee came and we sipped. I watched her ask for sugar-free sweetener. I watched her open it precisely with her artist’s fingers and empty it into her cup. Watched her stir it in a smooth, metered stroke. Then she spied me watching and that smile came out again, and that shrug, and she winked and licked the spoon.
I didn’t care my coffee tasted like New York tap water drunk from an old coffee can. I was here, across from her, and the city didn’t seem uncaring. At least for tonight. At least until the sun came up and banished us, us the poets of the nighttime sky.
It began with coffee. Stale, over-creamed, under roasted coffee in a cafe where everybody around us held nothing but empty hope and dirty cups in their hands. I didn’t even know how she liked her coffee. But I knew I wanted to know. I wanted to know down to the amount of time she likes to set it aside to brew and steam and fill her with the promise of its aroma. I watched her order. The slow bloom of her smile as she met the waitress’ eyes, the slight shift in her shoulders when she turned back towards me. The widening of her smile and how she leaned across to play with the napkin on my side of the table, her fingers tracing patterns around my left hand.
She spoke of things in a way that made them instantly sensual and vibrant. The way she described this city of hers that I was new to. The music in her car and how each song was picked so that even traffic couldn’t shake loose her happiness. She laughed, and it was a sound that echoed and reverberated in the deepest, quietest parts of me. It seemed to reach across and demand an answer from my throat, like a flamenco dancer in her last pose, drinking in her well-deserved applause.
Our coffee came and we sipped. I watched her ask for sugar-free sweetener. I watched her open it precisely with her artist’s fingers and empty it into her cup. Watched her stir it in a smooth, metered stroke. Then she spied me watching and that smile came out again, and that shrug, and she winked and licked the spoon.
I didn’t care my coffee tasted like New York tap water drunk from an old coffee can. I was here, across from her, and the city didn’t seem uncaring. At least for tonight. At least until the sun came up and banished us, us the poets of the nighttime sky.
A Summer Evening in Bhopal
It begins when the wind turns,
And the crickets and the cicadas open,
their long talks on the business of the day now past.
It begins when the wind sighs and sheds its heat
And wraps a cool blouse around its shoulders,
and curls up next to me across the lawn.
We watch the bats chase away the birds
as the crickets talk about it all.
The lake seems to almost smile then,
Just before the Sun dives into its arms,
Like a wayward son running home to Ma.
The jasmine opens it’s doors, and the figs,
and the champa begin their ever-shy courtship.
I am thinking of all that I have become,
And all that I wish to be.
And here, under these summer stars,
And their quiet sussurating song,
Neither fill me with shame.
I wake to walk back, with the wind
Laughing beside me,
All the way, all the way home.
And the crickets and the cicadas open,
their long talks on the business of the day now past.
It begins when the wind sighs and sheds its heat
And wraps a cool blouse around its shoulders,
and curls up next to me across the lawn.
We watch the bats chase away the birds
as the crickets talk about it all.
The lake seems to almost smile then,
Just before the Sun dives into its arms,
Like a wayward son running home to Ma.
The jasmine opens it’s doors, and the figs,
and the champa begin their ever-shy courtship.
I am thinking of all that I have become,
And all that I wish to be.
And here, under these summer stars,
And their quiet sussurating song,
Neither fill me with shame.
I wake to walk back, with the wind
Laughing beside me,
All the way, all the way home.
Caffeine Thoughts
praise the gods that caffeine isn’t illegal. I love it. I love it because it makes me feel too fast for the world to catch, too deep for the noise to follow, too happy for people to annoy. Love caffeine.
thoroughly mystified by the sudden celebrity status voting has received. Probably a good thing in the long run if youngsters feel that voting is “cool”
sad that we need celebrities to make us participant in our fundamental duty as democratic citizens
funny picture of the Bachchan family all giving the middle finger (to show their voter ink). I wonder if they forgot what the gesture means. Or they know and are doing it deliberately? I saw the paper before my first cup of coffee and thought the former, that they didn’t realize what they were doing. Then I drank some coffee and really looked at the smiles on their faces - how could they not know? Hilarious picture.
love my dogs. They are so badly behaved and unruly, it amazes me that I find anything to love about them. But each and every one of them is a finely crafted lunatic character. Maybe it’s because I’ve never chained them. But the idea of boundaries and limits and social grace are alien concepts.
did I mention I love coffee?
multiplex/producer strike continues to delay the release of my first feature film. Granted it’s an art film and I’m one of the secondary characters. But it’s my first film!! Until it releases and people talk about it, my dream hasn’t become a reality.
have been out of Bombay for a good week and have not missed it one bit.
although I miss the pretty girls.
only pretty girl here is my dog and she doesn’t bite
love the comments people have been posting
amazed people are even reading my ramblings.
thought this would be like sitting in an empty room, muttering at the walls like the lunatic I pretend I’m not
thoroughly recommend the book 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. although be warned, reading it is quite an undertaking. Not for those satisfied with airport lounge paperbacks. The fucking book weighs a ton! Fantastic prose though for those up for the challenge
want to write a book, but am suffering from too many ideas ricocheting around my cranium. need to spend a day and distill them down to one workable premise
feel like smoking a cigarette. Luckily I don’t have any. Always feel a strange mixture of pleasure and self-loathing everytime I finish one. Why can’t there be a substance that gives a good high that isn’t poisonous to the body. A righteous high. That would be something
what the fuck is up with all the raping going on in this country? Are Indian men that repressed and angry? And it’s happening more and more in the upper echelons of society. So they can’t turn their noses up and say it’s only among the lower classes. These rich kids with their trust funds and their utter disregards for a woman’s worth. I’d like five minutes in a room with one of these punks.
caffeine buzz receding…
lucidity murking up…
words beginning to……………..
thoroughly mystified by the sudden celebrity status voting has received. Probably a good thing in the long run if youngsters feel that voting is “cool”
sad that we need celebrities to make us participant in our fundamental duty as democratic citizens
funny picture of the Bachchan family all giving the middle finger (to show their voter ink). I wonder if they forgot what the gesture means. Or they know and are doing it deliberately? I saw the paper before my first cup of coffee and thought the former, that they didn’t realize what they were doing. Then I drank some coffee and really looked at the smiles on their faces - how could they not know? Hilarious picture.
love my dogs. They are so badly behaved and unruly, it amazes me that I find anything to love about them. But each and every one of them is a finely crafted lunatic character. Maybe it’s because I’ve never chained them. But the idea of boundaries and limits and social grace are alien concepts.
did I mention I love coffee?
multiplex/producer strike continues to delay the release of my first feature film. Granted it’s an art film and I’m one of the secondary characters. But it’s my first film!! Until it releases and people talk about it, my dream hasn’t become a reality.
have been out of Bombay for a good week and have not missed it one bit.
although I miss the pretty girls.
only pretty girl here is my dog and she doesn’t bite
love the comments people have been posting
amazed people are even reading my ramblings.
thought this would be like sitting in an empty room, muttering at the walls like the lunatic I pretend I’m not
thoroughly recommend the book 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. although be warned, reading it is quite an undertaking. Not for those satisfied with airport lounge paperbacks. The fucking book weighs a ton! Fantastic prose though for those up for the challenge
want to write a book, but am suffering from too many ideas ricocheting around my cranium. need to spend a day and distill them down to one workable premise
feel like smoking a cigarette. Luckily I don’t have any. Always feel a strange mixture of pleasure and self-loathing everytime I finish one. Why can’t there be a substance that gives a good high that isn’t poisonous to the body. A righteous high. That would be something
what the fuck is up with all the raping going on in this country? Are Indian men that repressed and angry? And it’s happening more and more in the upper echelons of society. So they can’t turn their noses up and say it’s only among the lower classes. These rich kids with their trust funds and their utter disregards for a woman’s worth. I’d like five minutes in a room with one of these punks.
caffeine buzz receding…
lucidity murking up…
words beginning to……………..
One of my favorite Poems
Dwelling by Li-Young Lee
As though touching her
might make him known to himself
as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country
his hand’s traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth.
And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what’s immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness.
As though touching her
might make him known to himself
as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country
his hand’s traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth.
And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what’s immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
for forgetfulness.
Untitled
Too many thoughts swirling around in me. Bobbing on a whirlpool of coffee and green tea. The day’s gone by so fast, and I did nothing to make it memorable. I wandered a bit, to remind myself I still know how. But soon, I was searching for a destination again. Bombay has started to change me. It screams at me to find a direction. But I enjoy stumbling through the woods.
Friends don’t call anymore. They wait for you to call them. This is how the world is. Everyone’s waiting for someone to call them. They stare at the phone staring back at them.
I went out for some coffee and watched people. I like doing that. I like coming with entire conversations as I watch them laugh, and joke, and whisper, and cry. It connects me to them, somehow, that I can imagine what they’re saying to each other.
There’s a serious lack of good coffee shops in the Juhu area. The Baristas, and the Coffee Days all serve this mutated soup that they dare call coffee. Met with a director I have recently worked with. Sweet man. Full of warmth and kindness. Likes to make tea for everyone. Gets slightly offended if you don’t have tea with him. I try to have extra cups.
He wanted to know my thoughts on some ideas he had for how we could improve some of the scenes we shot. But soon we were talking about the people we knew, and whether I was meeting any nice people in Bombay. He meant had I met any nice girls. I smiled and said yes. He smiled, but I knew he didn’t believe me either. I feel there are no nice girls in Bombay. There are those that used to be nice. And there are those that are nice, but know they can never reveal it.
And so it goes. The waiting for my next project to begin. I’m most alive when I’m working. When I’m not, I hibernate like a bear in perpetual winter.
Writing for this blog has become a nice exercise for me. I’m stretching my literary muscles again. I had thought them atrophied a long time ago. Nice to know I still can find my way around a pen and paper. Planning to read Hemingway again. He always make me feel I should write more often. I wish I could have known him. Stood side by side with him on his five foot high desk, and wrote for four hours straight like he used to do everyday, before his wife and the dogs called us outside into the Cuban sunshine.
Friends don’t call anymore. They wait for you to call them. This is how the world is. Everyone’s waiting for someone to call them. They stare at the phone staring back at them.
I went out for some coffee and watched people. I like doing that. I like coming with entire conversations as I watch them laugh, and joke, and whisper, and cry. It connects me to them, somehow, that I can imagine what they’re saying to each other.
There’s a serious lack of good coffee shops in the Juhu area. The Baristas, and the Coffee Days all serve this mutated soup that they dare call coffee. Met with a director I have recently worked with. Sweet man. Full of warmth and kindness. Likes to make tea for everyone. Gets slightly offended if you don’t have tea with him. I try to have extra cups.
He wanted to know my thoughts on some ideas he had for how we could improve some of the scenes we shot. But soon we were talking about the people we knew, and whether I was meeting any nice people in Bombay. He meant had I met any nice girls. I smiled and said yes. He smiled, but I knew he didn’t believe me either. I feel there are no nice girls in Bombay. There are those that used to be nice. And there are those that are nice, but know they can never reveal it.
And so it goes. The waiting for my next project to begin. I’m most alive when I’m working. When I’m not, I hibernate like a bear in perpetual winter.
Writing for this blog has become a nice exercise for me. I’m stretching my literary muscles again. I had thought them atrophied a long time ago. Nice to know I still can find my way around a pen and paper. Planning to read Hemingway again. He always make me feel I should write more often. I wish I could have known him. Stood side by side with him on his five foot high desk, and wrote for four hours straight like he used to do everyday, before his wife and the dogs called us outside into the Cuban sunshine.
Writing Exercise
There are no thoughts here,
Lingering amidst the warm ashes of my forgotten cigarette.
There are no thoughts here,
Swimming in the cooling pool of my sugar-sweet coffee.
There is only the numbness, the old familiar throb of it.
Creeping up my legs, slithering up, slowly up, into the back
of my spine, coming to rest behind my neck. Flicking,
Flicking my throat with it’s forked tongue.
Testing me. Teasing me. Reminding me,
I can never escape it, and I never want to.
I drop the cigarette into the coffee, and I leave.
When I get home, I remember,
I forgot to pay. I drive back.
They don’t remember me.
I drive home. I go to sleep, listening to the snake in my spine,
hissing it’s long lullaby…
Lingering amidst the warm ashes of my forgotten cigarette.
There are no thoughts here,
Swimming in the cooling pool of my sugar-sweet coffee.
There is only the numbness, the old familiar throb of it.
Creeping up my legs, slithering up, slowly up, into the back
of my spine, coming to rest behind my neck. Flicking,
Flicking my throat with it’s forked tongue.
Testing me. Teasing me. Reminding me,
I can never escape it, and I never want to.
I drop the cigarette into the coffee, and I leave.
When I get home, I remember,
I forgot to pay. I drive back.
They don’t remember me.
I drive home. I go to sleep, listening to the snake in my spine,
hissing it’s long lullaby…
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