USHA BOOK DEPOT

yellow tattered discarded pages

some from the 90's and some 

from my grandfather's time. 

One man's garbage is another 

man's treasure.

pink in morning light

and the fragrance next 

best after first rains

1709, Jaan Mohammad Street,

Camp, Pune. 

this is not a film review.

We were all waiting for it.
The last and the latest one from the Vishal Bhardwaj's production.
One of the very few creatives in India who can adapt Shakespeare without rendering the man helpless in his grave.
I wouldn't say that he could do so with much ease, as I am sure it takes a lot to bring words and philosophy  on screen of a 16th century playwright who is anyway too good to be alive.
I had seen Maqbool in sixth grade. I had seen Macbeth on stage in 12th grade. A production done by a Bangladeshi director with the then third year students of acting at National School of Drama. It left me sleepless for nights.
I had seen Omkara in eighth grade. I had watched Othello adapted in hindi, directed by my favorite director Ms. Tripurari Sharma in my first year of college again at NSD. And I wondered why the fuck someone like Saif got an award for the role of Iago. Our so called bollywood actors could never match up to what these guys from the theater world do. But that comparison has always been there. And it is so painful that unless you are a Naseer or Irrfan or Nawajuddin, you will end up getting ignored. Luckily like an academic brand placement, VB made Shahid mention the term National School of Drama in the film too. As if getting into NSD isn't a tough luck/task anyway.

Of course I am talking about Haider here.
I have never read Shakespeare in my life.  Maybe that part from Julius Caesar in our 11th standard text books where we have Marc Antony's speech.  That's all.

I have seen all VB productions. I have seen a lot of Shakespeare's stage adaptations in Delhi. I KNOW what these guys are really upto.

So that thursday morning when my excited friend Shivanee called me for a Haider first day show, I wasn't excited for the film. Mainly because of the cash crunch I was going through. And partly because that film was meant to be watched alone. Because Shakespeare is personal. Like a dirty little secret we keep under our winter wraps. And that is where it belongs. But common to all of us. That's why it can be still watched with a number of unknown people in a cinema hall. And noticing how Indian Cinema is traveling space, time and distance to stand on it's own feet, I had to watch it nevertheless.

I don't think I need to watch a stage adaptation of this one. Because it might blow me away and burst my 'cute love for everything Vishal Bharadwaj from makdee to matroo bubble' in a millisecond.
Just like that. I can never underestimate the power of Theater you know.
Alok you would know. I watched my last play with you at Prithvi.

So on saturday October 4th morning, my friend Alok posts this artwork called Chutzpah .
And Im like wut? who are these two people in the picture?
Then the very same day my another Internet/real life buddy Nitesh shares an MBP poster of Haider saying CHUTZPAH again.
AND im like hello there all the intellectuals out there, I don't know this word, this dictionary fails to explain the word, so what should I do next in this season of cash crunch now? I spent saturday buying old books with my mahila mandili in camp. Having a great time with Tanya, Swaroopa and Rucha. I failed to watch Haider again. So next day I go to Victory theater, Pune's almost oldest, and sit down to watch this film from the balcony side, surrounded by the ever so Disrespectful Pune crowd as an audience.
The best they could do was to buy tickets to a Gang Bang, I mean Im sorry, wait, Bang Bang in the other theater hall and have a good time there. But no. They had to take back some Shakespeare feels back home too.
Anyway.
So Im done watching the film.
And I have so much to say.
A friend was so disturbed after watching this film that he had nightmares.
My mother refrained from watching this film because she thought the lead actor would die. And she could not see Shahid Kapur out of all the people die. Not even in a film. Well she hasn't read the book herself so I couldn't blame her.

And I was just disappointed by seeing him not die in the film.
And that made VB and WS the winner of the game.

I wondered why the fuck VB took Kashmir as a backdrop. Shakespeare's tales are beyond time and space. They are not about people. They are not about places. They are about 'this mortal coil'.
They are about the psychology of this organ called the brain and this entity which is a cluster of nothing but thoughts, the human mind. Something which physically does not even exists.
He could have taken any region, any era, any dialect to show Hamlet in the Indian context. So why Kashmir. Is he mad? What the hell did he try to prove as a film maker.
Yes I had to read a lot about the Kashmir vivaad before writing this blog post.
Films are as much a political statement as they are a personal statement.
I read how VB visualized Kashmir as his Hamlet.

In the state of to be, or not to be. And this is the mortal coil. Dilemma.

Macbeth was Ambition. Othello was Doubt. And Hamlet happened to be Dilemma.
We all go through these three states. Not a single soul spared. Whether Im a kashmiri pandit or muslim, whether I am a woman or man. Whether I am rich or poor. Whether I am Nehru Or Jinnah. Whether I am you or me.
WE all go through this. And hence, Shakespeare is so beautiful.
By this time I had my questions resolved. But the writer fails if the dilemma which he presents in front of his audience gets resolved. And so Haider continues to live or die in his madness.
Madness is another dilemma too.
Never cured. Never resolved.
A lot of people say Macbeth is his greatest tragedy, but Hamlet in the disguise of Haider got me thinking thrice. Or maybe by now I have lost count. Will this mortal coil ever end?

I would rather be than not be.

I would rather work with Vishal Bharadwaj in this life or die soon so that I can be born as an animal in next life and spare myself all the dilemma the human mind faces.

Yes Nitesh, maybe animals do live in less fear because they live without words.

Now why I want to work with VB is because I will get best of both worlds. The perfect mix of theater and cinema. I hope there will be a time soon when Cinema will have it's own identity completely detached from theater. It's close to difficult but it will happen soon.
Now I have stopped analyzing films in term of photography and lighting and editing and all that jazz. We have come a long way that we can't afford to fuck with this medium on such levels. Those words are used mostly by people who seldom understand it. The only thing lured me into watching this film was that I am going through 'this mortal coil' just like a lot of those out there. You, you and you over there. All of you and all of us.
How as humans we are so complicated. And we all go through the same madness and pain. But we have the audacity to compare our miseries. No. Your misery is not greater than mine. And my misery is not greater than yours. So the dilemma and the madness goes on. And there you are feeling emotionally and mentally naked and robbed off of all your clothes and desires and belongings.
We hurt others but demand mercy for our own miseries.
And we are on repeat mode.

I also thought about a couple of stupid things. If you love someone, you let them go. If they are really yours they will come back to you.
Now this is me talking logic, practicality and sense.
Now me saying this for the Indian and Pakistan Government, with regards to our beloved Kashmir, will be me being extremely stupid, politically ignorant and worthy of a beheading or even more worse, worthy of a lifelong trial at the moment.
See. I agree. That's how cracked up we are.
But Im happy that a man made a film about this. Having an extremely questionable take on this.
Irrfan's four minute screen presence was great. But the editor and the sound designer has to be credited for making his entry so grand in the film, that the stupid crowd stopped for a while and hooted for him as if it really was some Khan or Kapoor or Bachchan. But that is National School of Drama right there for you bitches.
And those wonderful technicians.
I wouldn't say Tabu and Shahid outdid themselves as I believe both these actors have reached a level where no one else can outdo them. Not even themselves. Bharadwaj takes the credit here.

It will be nice If in India people will accept films as the director's medium. And theater as the actor's medium first and then the director's.

K.K. Menon. the ever so charming dude, had one great scene to himself and he was disappointing in that. He could have own the film with it. Now Im not mentioning which one.

The songs have become like a healing balm for me. VB himself being a phenomenal music director could not disappoint us. He has given romantics like me a reason to live again with his tracks and the revival of Faiz that along with his version I listened to the original Mehndi Hassan ghazal too.

The one scene I COULD relate to was Haider smashing one of the Salman's with all his might. I have always felt like doing that. And with the present situation of all the assholes in my life, I could empathize with that one shot of Haider killing the chap completely Krzysztof Kieslowski style.

Now again. Im stopping here. Watch the film If you are going through 'this mortal coil' too.
Yes I do have the habit of abruptly ending things cause it is time for breakfast now.

Here is the snapshot from Haider inspired by A short story on killing. A film by Kieslowski.

And I am sorry Alok If I have spoiled anything for you as you have not seen the film yet, I just read your comment regarding not seeing it on your blog :-P

too late.

write.

when we write.

how we write.

when we don't type but splash ink on surfaces. 

memories on slates of old solidified memories. 

out of duty or helplessness.

or out of a need to update ourselves.

when we actually write.

Words are not wind.

Im writing today because im hurt. Im writing because everyone else has their own shit to deal with. And im writing because it's the only thing which I can openly claim my love for. Without hiding it beneath dirty sheets on a rented bed of a dinghy room.
My ability to write as 'film maker' has been questioned by friends who are not even humans anymore. Who are just too hurt to empathize with the entire situation right now.
Writing is the only thing which reciprocates my love back after being finished.
That feeling when you miss on a hug not being reciprocated back right before you have to take a train to leave the city you love? That feeling when after making love to someone else, you yourselves are feeling unsatisfied and unloved and are just craving for a peck on the head?
Writing all this just needs to be written down. All it asks is to be written down. It does not ask you to wax or go down on it or ask you to keep your anger in control. It does not ask you or insults you for sharing it with others. Even when the intention was right and out of concern. Even when the intention was NOT A FUCKING A JOKE. Even when the intention was not a piece of fucking gossip.
It does not blame you for taking it to the hospital that day with you and later meeting with an accident all your life.
It does not paint you in a bad light.
It does not manipulate you.
Or asks you to fuck off. Or tells you that you had no right to this or that.
Words are not wind.
Don't give me that shit. Don't give me that shit when we were on top of that hill top and the view was worth all the pain we all went through in life.
Words are not wind. And if you think words are like wind, then you are highly mistaken in underestimating the Power of wind. The air the breeze the intensity it carries which is making you survive and making me survive. That's the power of words. It's oxygen.

I lost that day. I royally lost that day. My worst 24 hours of life. Where I fucked it all up. After fucking it all up even more. I could not make the only person understand me who could really understand me, Once.
I lost. And some losers won. I lost that day as I saw him hugging her and sleeping in the train. And I lost when the hug was not reciprocated back when I already gave myself to it. I lost when I was asked to leave. And I lost when I was fucked left right and center by her. By her words. By her lack of judgement. By her sense of vulnerability which I never took an advantage of.

I still respect the fact when she told me that the only person she could share her art and her personal self was only with me. I never told that to anyone. I never took that as a joke.


I only shared with what I went through. And what was told to me not by her, but by him.
What he told me and not her. And thats why the hug was never reciprocated. And thats why I was asked to work on myself as If you have to be a fucking PRODUCT in order to have some company and physical proximity with a person you like.
Yes I fucked it up. Yes I broke his trust. But I never lied. I hid things but I eventually confessed. Just like Her.
I became so attached with someone else's life that I thought It's mine. The ability to empathize is not always great. Especially when the other person can't. And yes I did a couple of unnecessary things too. I broke things so badly and thought I had the courage to mend them again. But I was not lucky. Like always, I lagged behind due to factors such as time space and distance.

And now you think I pretended to be a friend. You think Im giving you shit.
I know you regret even knowing me. And you have all the right to. As I said, you are too hurt to empathize with the whole situation. And no I did not brainwash anyone. I can't do that. If I could I would have not been in this situation in the first place.
Just because I fucked it up, it's not correct to call me a liar. I deserve your anger and tears and hatred and the desire to kill me for crimes I did not even commit. I deserve your "fuck you's" and "who the hell are you" but not the fact that Im a liar. And my reasons are not excuses. My reasons are my fucking reasons.

It's true. While talking we forget to quote many things and miss out on many things. I couldn't agree more with that.
But as I have always been able to zoom out of situations and look at them unlike many people, I can see myself winning. Maybe it's an illusion to live by. Maybe it's another random trip which the mind takes when it is under so much pressure and pain or maybe not. Cause I now usually vent my poison out where I only get love in return. But I can only see myself winning this. I was not doing any one a favor by talking to you. I owed you the right to be angry at me and yell at me. Something I was denied by your friends who now you love dearly. Im not even going there. I can't control anyone. But only I could take that. No one else. Not even you.

The only thing I could not stand was you attacking my ability to write.
Or anyone else for that matter.
True lovers are never ashamed of themselves. They are just naked because they have nothing to hide.
Now this is the last time Im really ranting about all this. There is a lot to do. There are other situations to come out of.

People have left and people will leave.
Words are wind and that is all ever going to stay.

And I thank Nitesh Mohanty for this beautiful fb post. It has brought me to be at peace with a lot of things including myself. 

Cheeti

I remember how Nikki had empowered me once while sitting outside SGS mall in order to believe that it's okay to use real names in my blog.
I have lost her and lost the courage to take the risk too again now.
That day she shared a lot with me. Since that day till today I haven't been promiscuous with her words and sold them off to someone else in the name of gossip.
I trash talk. But I never lie. I say things impulsively but I never gossip.
I share things about myself to others. Things which concern me. But maybe I forget that It involves the lives of other people too. And thus I decide not to share them anymore. Because I still love them.
It's so true how Rudy had once told me ( mind you, in front of a live camera) that speech was given to conceal thoughts. And It's true how every time I can't blame my existence in lonely loni regarding my need to share my life with my friends. I do so because they are my friends and they are harmless. They are not going to pick on each other.
It's the ambiguous that we always obsess over.


Thankfully all the moments shared with you were not ambiguous at all. It's just that in a way I have disappointed you. And I can't do much about gaining your trust back. I did things you asked me not to. And all I can do is figure out those wires within me which are causing such fluctuations.
It is always difficult to change the way you love someone. With every new person you have to adjust and adapt to them. It takes a lot of effort.
Maybe love isn't a pre-requisite. But it's lovely when it is.
I just din't know I could fall for someone who gets high on eating condensed milk sandwiches.
Again. I'm trying to keep myself away from all the obsessing. It's that feeling when you make soap bubbles float in the air and you are so happy that you end up bursting them all with so much ruthlessness. That one week I tried to do whatever I could. And became selfish. And all the things bad and all the things insecure.

I am not insecure anymore. Im just maintaining an honest relation with my blog without hurting people which I usually do in real life. And Im learning how to be responsible for myself. Seriously. I don't know how could i so easily afford to lose all those whom I loved so much once. And still do. It's just that I could not stand them being so much like an unresponsive wall to me.

Instead of taking two steps further I take ten giant leaps and ruin everything. And that's what I can't stop thinking about then. And then share MY mistakes with people like Rudy, who with all due respect make me realize what an asshole I behaved like and put me back into my right place from where I can start climbing again. It's like a mental trek happening all along.


Im the ant here.
The ant who wants to play djembe tomorrow. 

November 2013 Rants

feels like i have lost you. lost you along the coastal lines of the concrete suburban madness of this country. and i have been losing you everyday little by little.
Was it the distance of their feelings or the distance of the kilometers between them? Can a few hundred kilometers turn relations cold? Or is it just another hallucination she is facing because of her insecurities?
I do not know. This emptiness caused by your absence and bitter virtual presence continues to consume me exactly how i feel when im trapped inside a room full of smoke.
Why don't you make love to me with your words anymore? why every word is so bitter? was making love to me the end of it? was it even love?
She is scared to even ask this question.
What if he actually says yes? isn't dilemma really a bliss sometimes? just like ignorance they say?
I generally stay awake these nights. The 3:30 am train doesn't disturb me anymore. It greets me rather every night.
she thinks its like the train from Pakeezah. She thinks she is a bloody meena kumari. what a fool.
But these trains are nowhere related to you. You can't hear them anymore.
And the 5:25 train that we missed while it drizzled reminds me everyday that the night has come to an end. The 6 am birds chirp and tell me that it is finally time to fall asleep. There is a routine. But suitable to nobody. only to the dead.
I feel a lot of patience inside me and an endless wait too. More dreams are forming day after day. More late night till early morning chats with souls whom i thought to be soul-less.
Developments. Not changes.
There are restrictions. Time constraints. lack of speech. Still she manages to abuse. no intimacy. still she manages to form new temporary relations. no more back gate, crossing the dusty railway lines, no more chai with marathi songs on the radio. no more scope to build up nostalgia. everything has become so easy to get over now.
She is just tired of being heartbroken again and again.
Yet i feel so free and light.
Yesterday's rain was not romantic at all. The new yellow bulb was. The same which hides blemishes and what not. there was intimacy between her and nothingness. between her words and silence. The rain insects continue sticking to my laptop screen. Like a fool. Just like how i was in love.
I continue to lie on my bed. Stare at the ceiling. thoughts and gaze jumping into nothingness. Sometimes i aimlessly smile which fades into the same nothingness.
Something you did when you looked into my eyes and claimed that they were beautiful. Claimed that i was beautiful.
One should never make love to a feminist. She isn't one really. She is as weak and vulnerable as you.
everything else is a part of life.
ENDS

Archives...

i just remembered something. Like one thing led to the other.
Some of your past stories reminded me of california dreamin'.
It was Jan first/second week of 2013. You had just returned from Panchgani or you were about to leave, or maybe PIFF had just got over.
I was back from the winter vacation. A week before 2012 winter vacation I had helped you with that Karishma film of yours. Insane day it was. I remembered you thanking me at the end of that shoot and you came to me and were willing for a handshake. I sheepishly, like I have always done, shook just one index finger of yours. As if I was some chipmunk from alvin and the chipmunks. You laughed. And I just said that it's okay man.
I remember even after that boring hectic shoot ( the first time I met your brother and that friend of yours), around 9 pm or something you went ahead and watched another film in the projector room.
So as I woke up on one of the, somewhat close to the weekend jan mornings of 2013, I remember waking up from a dream where I was standing in the fvd studio right behind you, while you were editing on the mac where you always sat. I shook my hand again. And I woke up with the sensation of the first time I touched your fingers. When you had or maybe did have an idea that I liked you. Anyway. I think I hadn't seen you in a very long time. I got up from my bed while throwing the blanket away and opened the curtains of my window of the old hostel. Wore my clothes and brushed and left for the mess.
I think they were serving baked beans that day. And bournvita. I was filling my prison food tray and looked to my left. You were sitting at the far left corner, back against the window in a blue jacket with red collars I guess with khambolja and apte and all those chicks. The last thing I was expecting  was to see  you after dreaming about you that morning. Somehow stupidly I ended up sitting at the same table as you guys. And then after a few minutes you gave that bastard like smile of yours and sang california dreamin'. Again. You were so annoying. So are dreams. And so are songs sometimes. Goodnight.