confession

Ok. I lied. I did not quit the Express because I wanted to make a film. That was just part of the reason. But it was a reason glamourous enough to be spelled out.

More importantly, I quit to get a life.

I was tired of running behind assholes for some pearls of wisdom from their holy voice boxes. I wanted to relax. I wanted to touch life as it went by. I wanted to write, but on my own terms. Not to the dictates of what some half brained editor expected me to. I wanted to travel. And I wanted to be paid for all this.

Too many expectations.

Strangely, this time, they were fulfilled.

words

I don't mind sad endings. Atleast I'm always the leading lady.

Love is all a matter of timing. Its no use meeting the right person too early or too late.

I also like my stories to have happy endings. It's just that I don't know how to write them.

When you don't take no for an answer, there is still a chance of getting what you want.

Despite how false and cliched love is, we have no choice. We will always be in love with love.

If you have to choose between two kinds of love - true love, which is ordinary and mundane and false love, which is dazzling and shortlived, which would you choose?

Love is the blank spaces between lines in a love letter - no promises, no dialogues - just love.

Was the trap perfectly set or was I blind?

These are some lines that stayed with me after all the films I watched at the Asian Film Festival.

memorygraphs

Two ivory bullocks plowing an entirely dark brown landscape.

The banks of the Ganges, deserted except for one lone, burning pyre. The orange flames of the pyre battling with a slight rain, against the blue backdrop of the river.

A train approaching in the distance. The slow chugging of the wheels mingling with the delightful cries of children playing hop scotch under a majestic banyan tree.

A still as a mirror colourless lake and a solitary raft floating on it. Three women on board, each wearing a saree of a different color.

A woman in a bright orange saree walking through never ending fields of green under a blue and white sky. The very picture of India.

A deserted railway station. Relentless heat. Only two trees at a respectful distance from each other and two circles under them. One of bare chested men, the other women in bright ghagra cholis. Two different worlds. Colliding only in bed.

A man walking with the help of crutches in a narrow street. His friend walks with him. Every now and then, he halts, his arms hurting because of the wooden crutches. He sits, while his friend stands next to him. Is his friend getting impatient? Bored? Irritated? I can't figure out from where I am. My train crosses them and enters a station. It halts. When it starts again after a half hour break, the two have just reached the station. A salute to the human spirit.

A woman with four earthen pots perfectly balanced on her head and a child on her hips walks next to the railway track. And they call her the weaker sex.

Memories that I couldn't photograph.

A Guwahati Diary

Professions in film and television are still considered glamorous in our country. While the two in themselves may have become far more accesible to the public and hence lost their exclusivity, the people who work on a film or even an unheard of TV show, are still regarded with something close to awe.

So while, if a guy introduces himself as a software engineer, he may not get more than a passing glance even though he may be doing far more intellectual work than most TV persons can ever lay claim to.

A somewhat similar set of circumstances arose during our train journey to Guwahati.

As soon as our next door neighbours realised we were a TV shooting crew, they formed a respectful semi circle around us. Our production manager and lighting assistant then proceeded to regale them with stories of great courage and fanfare, while I looked like jumping out of the train wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

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There is a girl in her teens sitting in front of me, who has been staring at me almost continuously through the train journey. The anti social being that I am, I refused to look in her direction or return any of her smiles.

Things continued in that vein until her parents decided to introduce her to me. They ended by saying, "Now you two can be friends and you won't be bored." The girl also seemed happy with the turn of events.

Me, not knowing what to do, smiled in return.

Next thing I knew, she had plopped herself next to me and was looking more like a puppy than ever before. What a nightmare this was turning to be.

I then tried to start a conversation.

ME: Where in Bombay do you live?
SHE: Versova. I went to the Versova Welfare school.
ME: Oh, I live there too though I went to the Children Welfare school
SHE: Oh...did you complete your studies?
ME: um...yes...didn't you?
SHE: no, I've studied only till the 6th
ME: Oh...(looking sympathetic)
SHE: (continues...) And then directly gave my 12th standard exams...
ME: Huh??????
SHE: Ya...there is a way (looking mysterious)
ME: (giving up) OK

Pause...back to the puppy dog look

Finally my production manager attains realisation and announces that he wants to sleep and that puppy dog will have to get lost.

She goes.

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A few commandos with AK - 47's entered our compartment. I was bored, so tried to look as suspicious as possible, to spicen up the atmosphere.

Among other things, I held my bag closer everytime they passed my berth. My face contorted into fear and slight anger everytime they looked around. I even kept whispering into my cell phone from time to time.

But nothing worked. Either they were too unobservant or too smart.
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Guwahati - the name conjured up images of green hills, poetic lanes a hint of mist. But what it turned out to be was just a blob of spit.

Guwahati has been hit by what I shall call the Spitting Epidemic. Everytime you open your eyes, and if you carefully scan the frame of your vision, somewhere in that frame, there will be somebody spitting. (This is not an over statement).

Bombay seemed like heaven in comparison. Though what also helped Bombay's case was the fact that I was homesick.

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THE ANGRY MEN:

We went to the Kamakhya temple on the first morning of our stay here. This was my second lesson in "How to loot naive and foolish devotees" (Ref: Kali Bari was the first).

As soon as you enter the sacred precints, people surround you, each urging you to deposit your shoes in their shops and then obviously pay them for the favour. Next come the priests. This part needs no explanation.

What is noticeable here is how the priests look exceptionally angry, all of them. They had this perrenial look of irritation on their faces.

GOD IS A VIP:

We were then asked to stand in the queue. There were two of them - one for the VIPs and the other for the low down crowd who couldn't afford a 100 rupee ticket. If the latter had to stand in the queue for four hours the former would be done within half that time.

But the angry men did not spare the VIP's either. While standing in the queue, one of the VIPs had the temerity to ask a priest why it was taking so long. The latter roared in response first, then came up with an ingenious solution - he pushed the questioning devotee roughly, so that the ones ahead were squashed and then proclaimed sarcastically "See, the queue has moved!"

GEOGRAPHY ANYONE?

After an hour of standing at one place, I wondered why I was doing this to myself. I, an ardent non-believer, was letting my legs kill me to see some water coming out of the ground. I surprise myself sometimes.

My production manager standing next to me said, "Hazaaron saalo se yeh paani aa raha hai...pata nahi kaise.." It seemed like a perfectly logical geographical phenomenon to me but whatever..

The line finally moved and we were led into an underground cave. People had scibbled their names all over with chalk, probably as a declaration of having survived the four hour ordeal.

We worshipped something, apparently an idol of the Kamakya goddes, but I couldn't see it because of the garlands. Then we went further down and were asked to put our hand inside a hole and touch the ever-present water.

HALAL

This place apparently is quite famous for its goat sacrifice rituals. Baby goats roam around the temple courtayard, almost equalling the priests in number. The ones looking cuter with marigolds around their necks were next in the slaughter queue.

WAITING TO BE FREED

Men and women - not the usual devotees - sat in an enclosure. I think they were aspiring pujaris or something. They were praying, their religious texts and rosaries in front of them. In front of their enclosure was a row of wooden cages where white pigeons were caged. The resemblance was striking.

Devotees would buy the pigeons and set them free. I wonder if one could pay money for the release of the inmates of the former enclosure too.

Strange part was that even after the pigeons were freed, they preferred to remain within the temple surroundings because they were well fed there. I guess it would be same in the case of their human counterparts as well.