Going or Coming…

Text message 1: ’Yeah, I am leaving tomorrow...Hope to see you soon…bi..tc’

Text message 2: ’Yeah, I am coming tomorrow…Hope to see you soon…bi..tc’

Not much difference between the two messages except for the one word. I was going back to India on a weeklong vacation and the messages were sent to two different people in two different countries expressing two different emotions by the same person (Me) at the same time.

What caught my attention was the fact even though there wasn’t much difference between the two messages, still what they conveyed was more than different. What made it so (as suggested by a friend in another text message) was this word called ‘perspective’. A word which drives the way this world thinks. I dwelled a little more on this and smiled to myself for the fun in this supposedly ‘serious’ and ‘intellectual’ word.

Now the funny / interesting part in this whole presumably otherwise boring monologue is the confusion which comes with the word called Perspective.

So, what was I doing?

Was I leaving, was I coming, or was I/am I simply lost?

The world does indeed seem to be a circle, no matter how much you run, no matter how much you try to escape you always, ever so always come back to the same point.

So even if u ‘go’ it’s very likely that you will be coming back to the point where you started your journey from or if you ‘come’ back chances are that probably you had to ‘go’ a long distance for it.

But how easy is it to ‘go’ or how difficult is it to ‘come’, what does it take to achieve either one of these (they seem to be like Siamese twins if you catch hold of one, the other is automatically held)?

Since some time now, I have been telling a friend to let ‘it’ go and start a new journey. But sometimes I wonder, if the earth is round and all roads to lead to ‘heaven’ how can one person ever let ‘it’ go or start that new ‘journey’ when in the end one will have to come back to the same starting point. Moreover, if all the roads lead to heaven then what is the point of taking a whole new journey, you might as well continue with the road you are treading (they will anyways lead to the same destination).

It’s known to many that I have Thantophobia, and sometimes when I am overpowered by it I wonde, if we all had to go back to the point where we started from then why did he show us this beautiful world. Isn’t it sadism that you give one the power to explore and discover? Then, as per your whim and fancy you snap it away. Wouldn’t it be better had we all been pieces of furniture, devoid of any senses, so when the pain of everything being taken away overwhelms it wouldn’t have matter.

It’s almost like sitting on this terminal now waiting for my flight, knowing very well that this journey I am about to embark on wouldn’t be last forever and very soon I will be back to the same terminal (ok, if not the terminal then the same airport) albeit my direction would be opposite to what it is right now .

Like everything that ‘goes’ has to ‘come’ back, and everything that ‘comes’ back has to ‘go’ once again.

Bus Route No. 425 – And a story to tell

As I sit bored and idle in this room of a hotel in Muscat, my mind keeps going back to the recent times and I start to put words to thoughts for this long impending post.

I had always planned this, a string of abuses and curses for Bombay – The melting pot. I had to get it out of my system, for I thought that was one city which had wronged me, made me suffer and responsible for all the fuck ups.

One bus ride and I realised how wrong I was.

‘Ek 4 Bungla’, I asked the bus conductor and took a window seat, very happy that I was leaving the ‘God damn city’ within the next 24 hours. So happy, that I started looking at everyone with contempt. It was almost like ‘Hey! You lesser mortal, just a few hours and I won’t even look at you’. And with this contempt my eyes wandered outside to the bustling traffic and then to the ‘famous’ larger than life billboard of ‘The Hot’ female clad in a saree (this lady had been a topic in many ‘professional’ and ‘non – professional’ discussions).

‘So, is this the only thing that I will miss about this city?’ I asked myself. ‘A girl with green eyes, half draped in a pink saree looking at me, suggestively suggesting a few things’, I introspected.

My phone rang and my reverie was broken. ‘Where the fuck are you, I have been waiting here for the past half an hour’, barked a friend who had been waiting for me at ‘my’ chai tapri. Definitely another thing that I would miss about the city, I thought. The girl on the billboard took a backseat and I wondered where else will I be roaming around the city at two in the morning, looking for sotta and chai with no worries of not finding an auto or being stopped by the cops / goons.

No place else.

Where would I be getting my work done with a smile, make the best of friends with a handshake. Forget the stress of the day’s work and have fun in the night like there is no tomorrow.

No place else.

‘Hmm….I just may miss this city a little bit’, I contemplated.

These may come across as shallow and flimsy, but often these shallow little things remind leave you with a deep and lasting impression which can never be expressed in words (or maybe I am lost for words).

My bus stop came and I got down, bidding adieu to the ‘BEST’ services.

(And then the time came)

I took my boarding pass from the check in counter, a coffee and a muffin from the coffee shop next to the counter, found myself a corner to sit and wait.

This is where it struck me, now that I was leaving Bombay for good, I suddenly felt a part of me will be gone…lost forever. This is where I realised how much the city meant to me, how much I had fallen in love with it without intending to, how much I owed to this city, how much did it help me grow – both as a person and as a professional.

It is not every city where you lose a job and find another one in the next nine days. It is not every city that makes you sleep on a cold and dirty floor with your bag under your head and then gets you a house in the best of the localities.

When you find your bearings lost and gone, you were down and out it was only this city that called you to live it up, once more and to forget everything.

It was here, in the final moments of my stay that I fell in love with this city, the city which I so loved to hate. But maybe I had fallen in love with it long time back, but never saw it (like it happens with a camera when the subject crosses the focal distance it gets out of focus, this is one example I love to give to my friends whenever I mention about my love for the city).

Now, when I sit back and go back in time and remember the times (good and bad), it dawns on me that this city taught me how to live, how to work against all odds and work some more, against some more odds.

Bombay – the good, the bad, the ugly, or whatever you are, it was you who made me love YOU.

It was you who taught me that it was an honour, being part of ‘The Melting Pot’; it was only you who could make me say this.

Me - The Dog

So, it's that time of the year when the sewers are over flowing, there is no auto rickshaw on the road and you walk feeling as if you have just pissed in your jeans. No hard feelings, no cynicism I just hate rains, I simply hate rains.

Hate them so much, that I start to hate everything and everyone around me including Me and myself. This I feel is actually a good thing as it helps to clean out the system of all the hatred I have/had and start afresh (I still hate rains).

So, I have spoken and irritated a lot of friends (Intellectual Masturbation), Colleagues (Scratching the Surface, Not a Journalist) and done a lot of other things (not worth mentioning) on my blog. I think I won't get a better time and a better season to write this post.

So here I am, ranting away to glory once again..

I am a complete dog, a dog who not only barks but bites too....a dog who has rabies. I have done strange things in life to get my work done. The best intentions were always to just get done with the job, without hurting anyone but these best intentions were always over powered by the intention of doing the 'job'.

I don't have a guilt feeling, neither is this some sort of a confession, just sharing a thought which came to my mind (like the other posts). In this era of saving arses, I have always tried to save mine. Yes, sometimes it so happened that others got theirs in the line of fire because I had to take off mine.

So, if it was a poor spot boy who had to face my wrath as the elusive shot was just not getting canned, then sometimes it was one of the contestant who needed to be 'briefed' to say the right line.

The poor boy/guy wouldn't use the slang and swear words, I had to plainly turn the camera off and tell him, "Dude, if you don't give me good masala I won't be able to play you on TV. You better stop being a pansy and gimme some nice interesting bites. "

I changed his image completely, from a simple docile boy of 21 to this short tempered bad mouthing contestant. Another case of me saving my backside in trying to give my bosses and the audience good content to watch on their television sets.

Then there was a time, when I acted like a completed Bastard in getting this Inspector (maybe sub inspector) suspended, the guy just wouldn't give me the information I wanted. What do I do, I record him on the sly and show it to his seniors.

A couple of incidents here and there, a couple of incidents which I don't want to mention (too gross to be mentioned). The most recent one being of the "Episode Shoot", there was this mother of a kid (one of my contestants). A brain wave came to my mind. We have had too much of sweet moments on the show so just to make it spicy, we decided to twist it a little and make 'our mother' a little psycho (a character who scares her only daughter etc etc). I did that and we managed to establish the desired. But a week has passed and I still don't have the guts to look her in the eyes. It's scary because some appreciate me and say the 'great' job I have done, but when I see her I start to look for a way out.

Now, that when I think about them they just make me hate myself even more. I think it's the season which is doing it to me, walking on the road and being hit by those slimy little umbrellas (since I don't carry one, I keep bumping into them).

Let's hope that this season gets over soon, let's hope that the system is able to start afresh.

Pyaari Maa....Mamma

Songs do strange things to you. For the past few days I am glued to ‘Titliyaan’, a song by Strings. Every time that song comes in my play list, I wait for the lines

‘Girti kirnein, tera aanchal, kaise bhoolein, kya kahein. Gaati koyel, mehka aangan, kaise bhoolein, kya kahein’.

A rare thing for me, but it strikes something deep inside, a cord which almost brings a tear to my eyes (for people who know me, no still couldn’t cry), reminding me of my mother. Being in a different city now, I don’t get to see her like the way I used to. Going back in time, it seems it was just yesterday when she used to run behind me in the house, every morning with that glass of milk to finish the last sip ‘verna gunaah milega’ or playing the mediator and saving me from ‘papa ke pitai’.

Funny part is she never trusted her son’s potential for anything (maybe she thought I am not good enough). There were days when I was waiting eagerly for something, impatient and nervous I used to be floating around, it was then that she came and said something like ‘Koi baat nahi agar nahi hoga to... iske ilawa aur kuch nahi hai kya’. At that time, it used to irritate the hell out of me – my very own mother not trusting my abilities to pass the ‘test’. But now when I sit back and think I realise all she was trying to say was... ‘Beta, there is always a next time’.

It’s strange what songs do to you, the song now goes...

‘Titliyan yaadon ke udti jaayein, rangon mein mujhse kuch keh jaayein’

I long to see her now, waiting for the day when I will be home, because no matter at what time my flight lands, no matter at what time I reach home, I know she will be ready with Mutton Biryani (my favourite) and sit next to me till the time I am filled till my throat.

There is something which I am not sure if I will be ever able to do or not. Tell her I really love her and she is one person on this planet for whom I can do anything.

Life was simple being a kid, you never had to say anything, you never felt like saying anything, it was just reaching for her and giving her a hug. Or just sleep next to her very well knowing that you wouldn’t need a pillow, her arm will always be behind your head.

No words needed.

It’s easy to write it down here, because I know she will never read it (She doesn’t know that I write a blog). Sometimes you want to say something and still remain unheard, this is one of those times.

Times, when you just want to have her sitting next to you and giving you a third serving of that Mutton Biryani even when you can’t take even a single grain anymore. Or hearing her voice on phone telling you how to wash your clothes.

I remember the late nights I had with my friends, she used to call asking if I am coming home for dinner, the answer invariably would be ‘Nahi Ammi, I will eat out’.

Now when I sit back with the song playing in my ears, I just wish the answer on those phone calls had been a little different and I have had a few more dinners, with She sitting by my side.

Intellectual Masturbation

‘Manual stimulation of your own genital organ for sexual pleasure’.

An act of pleasure, is what the dictionary means, but pleasure can differ from person to person. While somebody can enjoy playing with his/her genitals others have their own way and method of reaching an ‘Orgasm’.

Slowly and steadily, as I walk along the path called Life, I keep bumping into a very strange class of humans, and with each interaction (which sometimes is funny as they themselves) there is this venom building up inside me not being able to find a way out. With this post, I intend to vent it all out and settle the score once and for all.

The industry I work in, is an industry where you just keep bumping into this breed. These people talk nothing less than Marx, Foucault and Freud. And when they talk, they talk as if they were the ones who sat with these greats and told them what to write/say.

The kind of bull shit these creatures can do will make a strong healthy bull hide with embarrassment for his inability to produce the same amount of crap. The best part is that, they themselves are not bull shitters by birth but influenced by bigger bull shitters who think they have cracked ‘the puzzle’ . This is how the chain progresses, bull shitting passed from generation to generation.

No matter how screwed their life is but they will always have an opinion on everyone. Always an advice to tell you to make your life better or a ‘critical appreciation’ of the problems you have in your life or how incomplete you are as a person.

And in doing so, they contradict themselves without knowing that they are, maybe they realise this but then it’s all right for them since they are ‘The all knowing, ever prevailing’ .

As far as my limited knowledge goes I think Marx once said, ‘Those who cannot represent themselves, need to be represented’. But who decides that a certain flock need to be represented or who decides that who will become the shepherd of any flock?

That’s a stupid question to ask, at this juncture. Can anyone do (read faf) it in a better way than our friends, absolutely not!

You go to one of their ‘Get – Togethers’ and you will realise what I mean (the writer says this from personal experience). The first time I was a little nervous, the aura was getting to me but then I tried to be a little optimistic. At least I will learn something in the company of these great men/women, I told myself and went ahead.

The ‘Get – Together ’, as you would have guessed by now turned out to be one session of ‘bakchodi’(at least for me), now to be honest we all do ‘bakchodi’ but then we agree to the fact that at the end of the day it’s nothing but mere ‘bakchodi’.

But here I was, sitting with a person who was discussing religion and telling me how one should follow it with discipline and fervour. Quoting from texts never heard of (I didn’t know that books with that name existed). That’s another thing that the gentleman could booze, lie, back bite, have casual sex and still, tell me to be a better Muslim than him. I guess he was above all of us to actually follow whatever he was saying.

Or the lady sitting in the far corner, for her life/friendship was about the goodness, gentleness and a lot more *esses which I don’t seem to remember. But it seems that somebody forgot to tell her not keeping your promise or lying or scheming isn’t a good feat either (maybe she still hasn’t read that book which says this).

There are many such examples, many more people who just remind me of the term I just coined. The way they talk, the way they try to sound compassionate, the way they make you feel what they feel etc etc. All of this, if it looks anything is nothing more than a big facade.

Finally, my final message to all intellectual masturbators, you guys suck and you suck big time. Why do you do it? I understand if it helps you in any way – sexual or asexual, but then you make it clear that you need to do it, without which you are incomplete.

Maybe you can device a sign or something which you can give before you start doing it and we will know that you are just trying to help yourself.

I am sure it wouldn’t take a lot. Would it...

I fear.

Before I start, just a word for a dear friend who thinks that I mistake Morbid to being intellectual. Don’t know what you will think with this, it’s not an attempt to be intellectually Morbid or Morbidly Intellectual, just an elaborate elaboration of an elaborate fear – My Fear.

Moving on, I feel all of us fear something which is subjective to his/her likes and dislikes. The Romans gave these fears some fancy names which to me are nothing more than some fancy names. Doesn’t matter who you are, we all have that one fear which can send a shiver down our spine. No matter how funny it may sound to others, but for you it’s that one thing which is worse than death.

Me being no exception, I fear my death. It doesn’t go well with the ‘worse than death’ phrase but that’s the way it is.

The faintest memories of my childhood are the ones in which I am crying on my bed, thinking that a day will come when I will no longer be a part of the wheel, no longer a part of the planet and the way it’s being run.

Silently hugging my pillow close to my chest, thinking of the different things that can happen to me (an accident, brutally murdered, old age, a body deforming sickness, or just silently closing my eyes to the eternal darkness and later buried in a place which scares me to death any way), I used to cry like an inconsolable child.

The fear never went, it just graduated to a level where with each passing year I ended up thinking ‘another one goes, how many more left?’

Now, when I Google it, to add more ‘attractive’ word(s) to this post, I find that I actually suffer (if it’s the right word to be used at this point) from ‘Thantophobia’, the technical term for ‘Fear of Death’. The way they have explained it on the website, it certainly is very extreme but then that’s the way articles are suppose to be exaggerating everything.

Today, even though I don’t hug my pillow or cry thinking about my eventual demise, there are nights when I am all alone sitting, talking to myself and wondering about that moment which will separate me from the Living and the Non Living.

That split second which will make all the difference.

Scratching the Surface...against the Wall

As I start the research for my next documentary, I feel something I had never experienced before. It comes as a shock, ‘the city’ was supposed to be more progressive / homogeneous / accommodating than any other in the country. But, just a little scratch on the surface and the worms start to come out – Ugly, venomous and scathing. The number so huge that I wonder why is it called the ‘Maximum City’.

Is it just a figment of my imagination or a strange co-incidence or something that happens on a daily basis, just that I never noticed it? But whatever it is, suddenly it has helped me remove all my doubts, if I had any for my Documentary (in fact made me believe more strongly in it).

So, being a Muslim or following a certain faith is indeed a reason good enough for suspicion, a reason good enough for hatred, a reason good enough to make one feel like a Rodent.

Friends often ask me to forget the whole ‘God Damn episode(s)’, ‘These people are arse holes, who are nothing but spineless jerks’, they say. But how do I forget them? I guess it would have been easy had the Episodes been in the singular form but what do I do when they just keep on multiplying.

It was only yesterday, when I was coming from a friend’s place in an auto rickshaw, as usual a conversation ensued with the driver. A graduate in Political Science (he claimed) from Benaras, he tried to explain the politics of the state.

The junior Thackeray according to the gentleman is taking the state in the drains, unlike the senior version who at least was doing something worthwhile – ‘building a Nation’. The junior one on the other hand has gone crazy and his hell bent on dividing the country just for his personal interest and greed for power.

And then it struck me, in the rickshaw, at the dead of the night, it wasn’t rocket science but still something which disturbed.

The idea was scary, scarier was the fact that the idea was everywhere. The worms were not only confined to the corporate lobbies but to the narrow roads of the suburb.

I am no moral guardian/watchdog/ preacher of the society (I don’t intend to be one). But for an average guy like me it’s a little unnerving.

I start to ask myself questions, questions which are not easy to answer, questions which are way beyond me and my intelligence. Questions which I feel can be avoided.

Rather should be avoided.