The Big Picture

I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be working with a TV production house known for its melodrama, bullet zooms and swish-pans - elements, I absolutely detest. Call it bad karma, or just a quirk of fate but here I am, questioning my decision to abandon an NBC internship a few years ago.

I remember telling my friend Eric in a windy by-lane in Brooklyn that I never imagined that guerrilla film-making would send such a thrill down my spine. I was young and stupid. We were shooting a short, with two women acting as lookouts in case the cops caught us. We zipped through a lane, the biting winds and sea-gusts lashing our insides while we shot using a steadi-cam. Not just because it was cool but because, that's the only option to use, when you know that you might have to break into a run. I don't know what makes me more unhappy today - not writing content that flows from my heart or the fact that everyone in American television seems to doing exactly that.

Today all I have is hope - that my film career may take off (which thankfully it is slowly but steadily) and eventually make me a power-to-be. Then, I shall unleash the creative muscle. I will, go Guerrilla. I will make gut-wrenching twisted films and seek vengeance on my oppressed TV working years.

I will prevail.

Don't!

How often has one heard that word? But here's a thought - if one were to rephrase the question, How often has one heard that word, in India? Bring out the roller coaster for the statistics to ride on now. I am aware that what I'm stating is blatantly obvious; its just that it hasn't bothered me so much until now and suddenly, censorship is sawing the crap out of me.

Let's begin with my first love, (Sorry Shim) Movies. Unfortunately for me, I've acclimatized a section of my brain to get its gore fix. I lean towards the dark side in Cinema and like a friend describes - my keywords aka criteria for 'Good Cinema' must comprise of the words, Disturbing, Nudity, Disturbing Nudity, Brutal Non-Stop Violence and Gratuitous Gore. Yeah, not your ideal date movie.

Now the fun part of the entire endeavor is that R rated films rarely release in India. It's bad enough that a bunch of morons are levying cuts galore (in the nation that prides itself upon free speech), the film is re-rated in India. WTF! I mean 3 post menopausal women and 4 pervy sadists play moral police to chors like me and say 'Don't, Don't Don't.' I can still hear their saidtic laughter as they jerk off to the uncensored footage.

But thats not all. The 'adults' want to play Invasion of the Body Snatchers with us and will follow us right into our homes and our heads. DVD's are re-re-censored on Indian soil, so that our rich, cultural heritage of adultery, child marriage, sati and dowry aren't tarnished. After all, its the nations dignity at stake. And yes, an A certificate means no nudity and no violence. Just obviously bad cuts that jerk the video as it skips frames. After all, the connoisseurs of good cinema have enhanced a story-tellers vision. Who needs the chainsaw in 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.' Front pagers in India like roasting their wives in tandoors. Americans - they have no imagination.

And in a rejoinder to the first love theory, lets scoot over to my other love and my passionate proclamations of love. Oh Wait!

This is a nation where decisions are made in advance by those in the know. The weak are oppressed with the wow of money and power. An authoritarian state, us, Nah! We are a peace-loving democracy. So what if we enjoy a little cultural S&M for kinks. We learn Community Living to love (and rape in some editions I probably missed) thy neighbour. In school, we actually attend Moral Science classes that preach and poach simplistic values of good vs. evil. Balderdash! I distinctly remember asking on one occasion, what I thought was a relevant question, about the existence of God. I was caned.

...Didn't moved mountains for my faith, I must admit.

But I shall have my revenge towards those that stand in my way. I will not hesitate to stab the enemy in the back. I will ensure the shrapnel dangles from his eyelids. I will prevail. I question, I ask and am not afraid to go into battle. After all, building bombs and exhuming hatred against all things unjust (and white) is ensconced onto my Islamic DNA. Isn't it? Don't u dare say don't.

Don't!

"I Quote. I Ramble..."

You don't understand! I could have had class. I could have been a contender but that would require courage. I could've been somebody, instead of being a troubled man who questions himself everyday. That is who I am. I've got a feeling I'm not in my delusional la-la-land anymore. So, here's looking at me, kids. Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night in the freak show that is my life.

What we have here is failure to communicate. Now that we see these signs, perhaps help is at hand and we can sit back and enjoy the smell of a defrosted napalm in the post apocalyptic morning. I'm definitely not going to say, Made it, Ma! Top of the world! Hah! They call me Mister Witty - and I'm as mad as hell, ain't going to take this anymore! I can't handle the truth. I want to be alone. After all, tomorrow is another day. Mom always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. A boy's best friend is truly, his mother. And life is a banquet, its just that most poor suckers are starving to death!

La-dee-da, la-dee-da.

Page 3

Okay, let me start by apologizing to all the people I force to read my random ramblings. I realize that I have put the ‘pro’ in procrastinate and haven’t really gotten on to updating the blog I so dedicatedly penned to begin with. Sorry! I’m lazy. I know that I need to find a way to destroy the dawdling demon that lies within. Okay, now on to more serious issues. I just walked in from an awards function and its after party. I enjoyed myself thoroughly – guilty pleasure, perhaps. I mean I’m not one to go absolutely goo-goo-ga-ga over stars (SRK excluded) and their soppy shenanigans and even more sloppy speeches – since I already have my acceptance speech, a classy one at that, down pat. I just had fun criticizing the overly dressed up tartlets and continued giggling like a schoolgirl at the effeminate alpha males. Yes, I see the irony too. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I take a minute to trounce my classist moment.

Done!

Anyway, while all of the above doesn’t make sense and since Red Bull clearly cannot get me high I want to pen down a few thoughts in all my commonsensical consciousness. Exclusive clothes, air-kisses, Evian, polite conversation, bitchy-bytes, designer shoes, fancy cars, 5 Star Venues, imported caviar, expensive wine and artificial hair-shine is the stuff that my custom made career will become heir to. I’ve always wondered if I could master the art of fake conversation and compliment my worst enemy. I’m no Derek Zoolander but I do occasionally seek worldly advice from a puddle in a pothole. I don’t know my Hussain from horse-shit but I know that the going rate is a million bucks. Don’t judge me – we all know how it works.

Now here’s the scary part. As I gradually climb the social ladder and go from the SMS invite to a handcrafted courier, I’ve begun to become conscious of the arch lights that reflect from the flippantly larger-than-life Prada handbags and I, in point of fact, fit right in. I must say that I enjoy the concept of power-lunches and high-tea. I don’t mind paying the extra ten grand for a label that reeks of a fashion know-it-all. I take pleasure in holding my wine glass just right even as I enjoy name-dropping and reveling in the luxury of fake scandal. They say that talk is cheap but my mouths full of imported Sushi.

…I absolutely hate it.

Choose

Choose Death. Choose to Live. Choose a Line of business. Choose happiness. Choose Joy. Choose Sadness. Choose a big HD television; choose surround sound, fancy cars, ready to eat microwavable meals. Choose new words. Choose bad health, fat and cholesterol. Choose KFC. Choose a lifetime gym membership you will never use. Choose a Playstation. Choose to travel through short-cuts. Choose to Abuse when a track rams into you from the opposite direction. Choose a book. Choose not to read it. Choose your friends. Choose Underwear. Choose a Country. Choose Sex. Choose to question Yourself. Choose your identity. Choose to marry marijuana. Choose to marry a millionaire. Choose to wonder who the Fuck you are. Choose Reality Television. Choose to have a love marriage. Choose your future. Choose a Wife. Choose to Kill. Choose to back out. But why would I want to do a thing like that? I'm not supposed to be choosy.

Dhoondein...

Abhijeet Sawant (yes of the Down Market Indian Idol Fame) is out with a new album. I downloaded it to fill up the blank space for my new car MP3 CD. I had just about enough empty space for one more Album and knowing my anal penchant from being, well, anal - I downloaded the album since it was amongst the new releases of the week. I popped it into my car and cruised along waiting for the much awaited Saawariya and Sanjay Leela Bhansali to tease my senses with eclectic sounds. Ugh, barring the title track, the music is a Dud. If I wanted to hear Devdas repackaged, I would pop it into my Sound Editing Software and do the needful. Om Shanti Om, was just Groan, Groan Groan (sorry SRK). Out of sheer desperation, engine idling and watching sweaty people alight from trains at the choc-a-block Andheri station - I hit "Next"

“Yeh Mere Dil Mein Kaisa Junoon, Mann Ko Kyun Na Mile Ab Sukoon”

Junoon, Junoon, Junoon, my four super Amplified speakers reveled with liberation. Suddenly, it was as if I, like Hiro Nakamura bent the space-time continuum, made time stand still and drowned out all sights and sounds. The music was fabulous. I couldn't believe that this was the unappealing Mahim boy whom I'd shot with 6 months ago, not wanting to ever speak to again, because he was so, err, Boring. But, looks and talent can be so deceiving. His new album, blew me away to say the least. I could not even believe he was the singer.

“Hai Aankho Mein Junoon, Hai Khwabon Mein Junoon”

Dhoondein followed Junoon and I just drifted. The song has the vocals, the beat, the rhythm, and the melody set to aural perfection. Even, as a critique, I could find nothing nasty to say about it - and that’s my job description to me in my head. Be Nasty! The music gave me a déjà vu of my new favorite composer, Mithoon and his fresh sound (Note: He and I will be the new age Mani Ratnam and AR Rahman – Remember, you read it here first Dahlings). I will not even begin to rant about Ek Shaqs even though it may be hell repetitive and almost a carbon copy of Beete Lamhe (which inspired a blog, previously) it still corrodes emotions buried deep inside. Back to Dhoondein.

“Yaadon Mein Hai Khoyi Hui Zindagaani, Kaisi Hai Yeh Uljhi Huyi Si Kahaani”

Suddenly, the people outside my window looked cheerful, the engine wasn’t idling, it just moved to the beat purring with a life of its own and wonder of wonders, the traffic cleared. I know, it sounds like the Pilot Episode of Super-Duper-Natural but then again, music like this – is simply, Magic. My apologies, Abhijeet.

Love Will Keep Us Alive

...goes the popular Eagles song. Still, I often wonder how true the statement really is? I mean what is life without the materialistic fast cars, flashy houses, gold-power weights, surround sound, HD enabled screens and slim, sexy Apple computers? Yup, the luxuries that the big greens can grab. The stuff that costs more than sweet nothings and soft murmurs into the pillow beside you. Sure, I'm no Hugh Grant and I don't much about Love, Actually, considering my limited encounters with the crazy emotion (twice) but for some weird reason, I believe the song. I believe, Love Can Keep Me Alive