I have a friend named sunshine.
Sunshine has no gender, it's not even real. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, Sunshine tells me I am going to have a beautiful day. Often, when I am grappling with darkness, it tells me things will be okay. Sunshine has seen me through testing times, broken relationships, foolish decisions, indecision and excessive happiness. I have tried to rename it instinct, kung fu, destiny, superstition and even insanity. But Sunshine describes it best because I am still alive and hopeful.
I have a friend named sunshine, it's like BB King's guitar Lucille, sometimes when I am blue Sunshine calls my name.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
God's child
What if you woke up one day and realised you are God's child. That you could make your toothbrush fly and turn your neighbour into an owl. What would you do?
Would you attempt to part the sea? Or if you are in a place like Bangalore that doesn't have water even in its taps, would you try something cooler like flying to work arms wildly flapping and all. Come to think of it, why work at all. Come on now, what would you do child of God?
PS: Yeah, no comments on serving the poor and the homeless etc. Leave that for the Miss Universe finalist.
Would you attempt to part the sea? Or if you are in a place like Bangalore that doesn't have water even in its taps, would you try something cooler like flying to work arms wildly flapping and all. Come to think of it, why work at all. Come on now, what would you do child of God?
PS: Yeah, no comments on serving the poor and the homeless etc. Leave that for the Miss Universe finalist.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The fountain pen
I am going to buy myself a fountain pen today.
There is nothing to be worried about really, these things happen to me. I have had this craving to own a fountain pen all weekend. Call it a mid-life crisis or worse but I am getting one and no arguments please.
For those of you born in the unfortunate and ignorant 80s, the fountain pen is a magical and messy instrument of the Doordarshan age. Owning a fountain pen is like owning a Zippo lighter, you don't throw it away when it runs out of gas. Instead, you keep a bottle of ink handy and fill it carefully till you see dribbles of ink leaking. Then you clean the nib and you are good to go again.
The fountain pen has an ink reservoir, a nib (usually made of stainless steel or gold) and a mind of its own. You have to be nice to it or it can mess up your freshly washed shirt or examination paper. It's a moody instrument, it can shut shop without warning. Then you give it a good old fashioned shake and if you are lucky it will squirt a stream of indigo at anybody prowling in a 1-km radius.
Back in the day, the fountain pen was a symbol of success. There were Indian brands like Camlin for the masses, Waterman or Sheaffer for the privileged and Hero (from Red China) for ones with uncles in Dubai. I have to buy one.
There is nothing to be worried about really, these things happen to me. I have had this craving to own a fountain pen all weekend. Call it a mid-life crisis or worse but I am getting one and no arguments please.
For those of you born in the unfortunate and ignorant 80s, the fountain pen is a magical and messy instrument of the Doordarshan age. Owning a fountain pen is like owning a Zippo lighter, you don't throw it away when it runs out of gas. Instead, you keep a bottle of ink handy and fill it carefully till you see dribbles of ink leaking. Then you clean the nib and you are good to go again.
The fountain pen has an ink reservoir, a nib (usually made of stainless steel or gold) and a mind of its own. You have to be nice to it or it can mess up your freshly washed shirt or examination paper. It's a moody instrument, it can shut shop without warning. Then you give it a good old fashioned shake and if you are lucky it will squirt a stream of indigo at anybody prowling in a 1-km radius.
Back in the day, the fountain pen was a symbol of success. There were Indian brands like Camlin for the masses, Waterman or Sheaffer for the privileged and Hero (from Red China) for ones with uncles in Dubai. I have to buy one.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sean Penn and the heart of art
What has remained with me years after I watched Mystic River is Sean Penn's eerie menace. Penn as Jimmy the ex-con gone straight has this repressed intensity that threatens to uncoil and burn when prodded. His brooding physicality looms large over the movie.
And then I watched Milk. Penn is incandescent again. In the hands of director Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn turns gay with such control and conviction that you almost forgive him for kissing James Franco every five minutes. Penn and Sant stay clear of all the gay cliches, the campiness and fluttering eyelashes.
Milk is a powerful film, iconic even. How often do you find a film that deals with that most primordial of human rights ... the right to be yourself.
PS: Yeah, fairy tale would have been a sick headline:)
And then I watched Milk. Penn is incandescent again. In the hands of director Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn turns gay with such control and conviction that you almost forgive him for kissing James Franco every five minutes. Penn and Sant stay clear of all the gay cliches, the campiness and fluttering eyelashes.
Milk is a powerful film, iconic even. How often do you find a film that deals with that most primordial of human rights ... the right to be yourself.
PS: Yeah, fairy tale would have been a sick headline:)
70mm of the eighties
I miss the old fashioned movie hall or cinema theatre as we used to call it. The drama unfolded much before the lights faded and the burgundy curtain rose to lusty cheering. It began at the gate with hustling queues, eager touts and an occasional angry abuse or punch. The cinema social order was differentiated by colour ... yellow tickets for the front stalls, pink for the middle class, green for the upwardly mobile and blue for the dress circle. The colours were interchangeable but not the seats.
Cinema theatres had balconies and dress circles. You could stand at the balcony and hurl pop corn at the working class or you could sit with the front benchers and whistle your lungs blue.
You sat through black and white Films Division documentaries, usually about polio or birth control or similar fun stuff. You sat through "trailors" and then you waited with bated breath as the flickering film came alive in Eastman colour. You perched precariously on the rickety seat with the ripped out foam and tried to keep your mouth closed as Amitabh Bachchan took a bullet in his gut.
And the lights would go off. The darkness would be rented by whistles, boos and an occasional yelp. You swore under your breath and fought for oxygen. And then you would hear it ... the unmistakable whirr of the movie projector coming alive again ...
Cinema theatres had balconies and dress circles. You could stand at the balcony and hurl pop corn at the working class or you could sit with the front benchers and whistle your lungs blue.
You sat through black and white Films Division documentaries, usually about polio or birth control or similar fun stuff. You sat through "trailors" and then you waited with bated breath as the flickering film came alive in Eastman colour. You perched precariously on the rickety seat with the ripped out foam and tried to keep your mouth closed as Amitabh Bachchan took a bullet in his gut.
And the lights would go off. The darkness would be rented by whistles, boos and an occasional yelp. You swore under your breath and fought for oxygen. And then you would hear it ... the unmistakable whirr of the movie projector coming alive again ...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A dog called cat
How do you name a pet animal?
By religion: Tommy, Jimmy, Sammy, Daisy ... all good Hindu dogs.
By colour: Snowy, Blackie, Dark Brownie and sometimes Whitey?
By heroes: Kaiser, Caesar, Diana, Ramalingam Raju
By your tipple: Whiskey, Brandy, Cognac and if you are in denial, Coffee.
I feel for these animals. Not only are they cruelly locked up and not allowed to pee and crap at will, they have to live with the most everyday names ever. Like me.
So, I break into hysterical laughter when I read that Naseeruddin Shah has named his cat Buddhu. If I ever own a dog, I will call him a cat.
By religion: Tommy, Jimmy, Sammy, Daisy ... all good Hindu dogs.
By colour: Snowy, Blackie, Dark Brownie and sometimes Whitey?
By heroes: Kaiser, Caesar, Diana, Ramalingam Raju
By your tipple: Whiskey, Brandy, Cognac and if you are in denial, Coffee.
I feel for these animals. Not only are they cruelly locked up and not allowed to pee and crap at will, they have to live with the most everyday names ever. Like me.
So, I break into hysterical laughter when I read that Naseeruddin Shah has named his cat Buddhu. If I ever own a dog, I will call him a cat.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Night 1.0
It's a garbled sky tonight. The moon is shrouded in angry cloud. The air breathes heavy and hot. There is a promise of rain but it will be broken I can tell. The leaves sway restlessly, the moths buzz aimlessly. There is anticipation all around. And a dew drop ambles down. Have you ever watched the night?
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