…Some believe it doesn’t really matter. But maybe it does.
Sometimes it’s your past that catches up with you. And sometimes, it’s your future. But once the battle is over, that strange, haggard entity left holding a consolation prize, is your present. And the trouble with this poor present is that it can’t blame either of the two. It’s the past that has led to this, and it’s the future where this will lead to. It’s like staring at broken pieces of glass and finding the culprit therein. Doesn’t work.
And still we continue to believe that in the end, it wouldn’t really matter. But whatif it does… ?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
…And all the men and women, merely players
They say life comes full circle eventually. Only in this case, I suppose this eventuality occurs every week. Here we are again, at a distance of 7 days from the last post. The fading sounds of this weekend’s beating retreat.
I sometimes don’t believe the curtain has to rise. I mean, hold on… can’t you see, we are still fixing the fucking footlights… And the mikes, and the sound system, and the violin whose bow is missing again. I don’t know what I am going to sing when I am on the stage once more. Where’s the goddamn song? Where are all the actors? Where is my dress rehearsal? More importantly, where is my dress?
Where is my mask that I need to put on? Still lying broken in places, from last week’s overuse. And from all the acid the audience threw on it. In anger or desperation, I would not know. Maybe they wanted to know what I was hiding. Maybe they just didn’t like the contraption itself. But do you know what’s the worst part of wearing a mask? Apart from your makeup going waste (which perhaps, is trivial), your mirror fails to recognize you.
This is how it feels every time the doors finally close and as the last late entrants among the audience have stumbled into their numbered chairs. That’s when you start missing the musician who met with a heart attack yesterday. And the director who met with a road accident. And the script-writer who met with a writer’s block…
And as the players assemble to enact, you find yourself feigning ignorance for some, and recognition for others, as your eyes search through the holes of their masks.
Welcome home, ladies and gentlemen. Let the show begin…
I sometimes don’t believe the curtain has to rise. I mean, hold on… can’t you see, we are still fixing the fucking footlights… And the mikes, and the sound system, and the violin whose bow is missing again. I don’t know what I am going to sing when I am on the stage once more. Where’s the goddamn song? Where are all the actors? Where is my dress rehearsal? More importantly, where is my dress?
Where is my mask that I need to put on? Still lying broken in places, from last week’s overuse. And from all the acid the audience threw on it. In anger or desperation, I would not know. Maybe they wanted to know what I was hiding. Maybe they just didn’t like the contraption itself. But do you know what’s the worst part of wearing a mask? Apart from your makeup going waste (which perhaps, is trivial), your mirror fails to recognize you.
This is how it feels every time the doors finally close and as the last late entrants among the audience have stumbled into their numbered chairs. That’s when you start missing the musician who met with a heart attack yesterday. And the director who met with a road accident. And the script-writer who met with a writer’s block…
And as the players assemble to enact, you find yourself feigning ignorance for some, and recognition for others, as your eyes search through the holes of their masks.
Welcome home, ladies and gentlemen. Let the show begin…
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Where have all the weekends gone…?
Come Sunday evening, and this is one question I always ask myself. Surprising how fast they vanish. Like childhood friends who grow up too soon and settle down a few million miles away from you, leaving you with stories of Jack & Jill to talk about with your office colleagues on Monday mornings.
These two days disappear as if they never existed. Leaving behind another trail of things that you had said you will finish this weekend. Only to know that another set of unfinished promises and lunches and dinners have instead taken their place. Probably the leaking tap has been fixed and the blipping tubelight has been replaced, but there’s still that little plaster falling off the wall, the shelf has not been cleaned, and a pair of shoes that you were supposed to buy one month back…
And before you know it, Monday is knocking on the week’s door, too eager to gate crash into its short party. Infact even as I write this, I can see it lurking outside the window, creeping behind shadows, with that evil smile, as if Gollum were calling for its Precious…
These two days disappear as if they never existed. Leaving behind another trail of things that you had said you will finish this weekend. Only to know that another set of unfinished promises and lunches and dinners have instead taken their place. Probably the leaking tap has been fixed and the blipping tubelight has been replaced, but there’s still that little plaster falling off the wall, the shelf has not been cleaned, and a pair of shoes that you were supposed to buy one month back…
And before you know it, Monday is knocking on the week’s door, too eager to gate crash into its short party. Infact even as I write this, I can see it lurking outside the window, creeping behind shadows, with that evil smile, as if Gollum were calling for its Precious…
The Taxidriver – A short play in one Act…
…and 7 scenes…
Scene 1 – 9:30 AM – A suave gentleman in a Louie Philippe shirt and a Zodiac tie approaches a taxi to take him to his office. The smell of Gillette Storm Force is still lingering as he closes the door.
And as the journey begins, he pulls out his PDA and starts communicating with his colleagues on how best to close the next sales deal. The taxi driver is listening, attempting to understand “revenue”, “sales cycle” and “competition”, but never fully aware of the gentleman’s chronic Stage 2 of Hypertension…
Scene II – 11:00 AM – Two teenage college girls, in tank-tops and jeans, board this taxi to drop them at the nearest movie theatre. The smell of Dolly Girl and Ralph Lauren Romance perfumes is still lingering as they close the door.
On their way to the theatre, they chit-chat and giggle about overbearing moms, acnes, sunsilkgangofgirls.com, SPF lipsticks, boys…
The taxi driver is listening, smiling to himself at times, but never fully aware of one of the girls’ drinking habits…
Scene III – 1:00 PM – A middle-aged woman and her 7 year old son hail this taxi to reach home from the son’s school. The smell of mud, books, and Adidas PT shoes is still lingering as they close the door.
They talk about homework, angry teachers, the son’s friends and dad’s indifference…
The taxi driver nods at times and then disapproves as he searches for his own kid’s words inside his taxi, never fully aware of the bullies in the little boy’s class…
Scene IV – 4:00 PM – An old man in a light grey flannel suit calls the taxi to reach the telephone exchange. The smell of ruffled papers and Emami hair oil is still lingering as he closes the door.
He talks to the taxi driver about ridiculous phone bills, painful government offices, and his wife who never listens to him. The taxi driver seems to understand most of the old man’s gripes, but is never fully aware of that one stranger’s number, who his daughter has been calling for the past one year…
Scene V – 7:00 PM – A recently married couple calls the taxi to reach Bandstand.The smell of fading henna and thick ivory bangles is still lingering as they close the door.
And the taxi driver feigns ignorance at the sounds of quick breaths and swiftly moving hands in the backseat, searching, finding, hoping…
He trudges along on the jammed roads, never fully aware that the woman’s past is about to catch up with her…
Scene VI – 10 PM – Two mid-twenties girls step inside to reach an uptown disc. The smell of permed hair, stilettos, Chanel No 5 and Christian Dior is still lingering as they close the door.
They blabber about fake jewellery, the rates at Kaya skin clinic, anti-hangover pills, Cosmopolitan, and men…
The taxi driver is pretty much clueless about the entire conversation but can’t help adjusting his rear-view mirror once in a while, never fully aware that one of the women is a kleptomaniac…
Scene VII – 2 AM – A bar-girl is escorting a totally sloshed early 30s guy into the taxi. The smell of Green Label, butter chicken, kaajal and dried tears is still lingering as the driver closes their door.
The guy is staring up at the taxi roof, searching for the bar lights there. The taxi driver is staring at the almost-empty road, searching for sleep. The girl is staring out her window, searching for nothing. No words are spoken throughout, and the taxi driver is fully aware of what the rest of the night is looking like…
It must be odd, to catch a nap after all that. When disconnected fragments of the lives of so many people flash around you in a day. It’s like gazing through a huge, rusted kaleidoscope, looking at the light through multi-colored glasses, never knowing the complete picture, yet being drenched in every taint that the kaleidoscope has to offer. And these tinges change day after day, night after night, stranger after stranger, with the only constant companion of the taxi driver being the faithful meter, which of course never minds being turned over, and over again…
Scene 1 – 9:30 AM – A suave gentleman in a Louie Philippe shirt and a Zodiac tie approaches a taxi to take him to his office. The smell of Gillette Storm Force is still lingering as he closes the door.
And as the journey begins, he pulls out his PDA and starts communicating with his colleagues on how best to close the next sales deal. The taxi driver is listening, attempting to understand “revenue”, “sales cycle” and “competition”, but never fully aware of the gentleman’s chronic Stage 2 of Hypertension…
Scene II – 11:00 AM – Two teenage college girls, in tank-tops and jeans, board this taxi to drop them at the nearest movie theatre. The smell of Dolly Girl and Ralph Lauren Romance perfumes is still lingering as they close the door.
On their way to the theatre, they chit-chat and giggle about overbearing moms, acnes, sunsilkgangofgirls.com, SPF lipsticks, boys…
The taxi driver is listening, smiling to himself at times, but never fully aware of one of the girls’ drinking habits…
Scene III – 1:00 PM – A middle-aged woman and her 7 year old son hail this taxi to reach home from the son’s school. The smell of mud, books, and Adidas PT shoes is still lingering as they close the door.
They talk about homework, angry teachers, the son’s friends and dad’s indifference…
The taxi driver nods at times and then disapproves as he searches for his own kid’s words inside his taxi, never fully aware of the bullies in the little boy’s class…
Scene IV – 4:00 PM – An old man in a light grey flannel suit calls the taxi to reach the telephone exchange. The smell of ruffled papers and Emami hair oil is still lingering as he closes the door.
He talks to the taxi driver about ridiculous phone bills, painful government offices, and his wife who never listens to him. The taxi driver seems to understand most of the old man’s gripes, but is never fully aware of that one stranger’s number, who his daughter has been calling for the past one year…
Scene V – 7:00 PM – A recently married couple calls the taxi to reach Bandstand.The smell of fading henna and thick ivory bangles is still lingering as they close the door.
And the taxi driver feigns ignorance at the sounds of quick breaths and swiftly moving hands in the backseat, searching, finding, hoping…
He trudges along on the jammed roads, never fully aware that the woman’s past is about to catch up with her…
Scene VI – 10 PM – Two mid-twenties girls step inside to reach an uptown disc. The smell of permed hair, stilettos, Chanel No 5 and Christian Dior is still lingering as they close the door.
They blabber about fake jewellery, the rates at Kaya skin clinic, anti-hangover pills, Cosmopolitan, and men…
The taxi driver is pretty much clueless about the entire conversation but can’t help adjusting his rear-view mirror once in a while, never fully aware that one of the women is a kleptomaniac…
Scene VII – 2 AM – A bar-girl is escorting a totally sloshed early 30s guy into the taxi. The smell of Green Label, butter chicken, kaajal and dried tears is still lingering as the driver closes their door.
The guy is staring up at the taxi roof, searching for the bar lights there. The taxi driver is staring at the almost-empty road, searching for sleep. The girl is staring out her window, searching for nothing. No words are spoken throughout, and the taxi driver is fully aware of what the rest of the night is looking like…
It must be odd, to catch a nap after all that. When disconnected fragments of the lives of so many people flash around you in a day. It’s like gazing through a huge, rusted kaleidoscope, looking at the light through multi-colored glasses, never knowing the complete picture, yet being drenched in every taint that the kaleidoscope has to offer. And these tinges change day after day, night after night, stranger after stranger, with the only constant companion of the taxi driver being the faithful meter, which of course never minds being turned over, and over again…
Monday, January 01, 2007
The year that was…
.. or something similar. Because this night, every news channel, every print house, and any damn body (and their uncles) who are in showbiz would be summarizing the essential happenings of this year.
The point is, I don’t want this to be a summary. I don’t want this to be something that everyone does. Like a goodbye to a friend. Because this is not a goodbye. The friends might still come back, the year doesn’t. So what is this going to be? I guess the most logical genre would be – an obituary.
So let’s put it in that style then… and what better time than these wee hours of the morning. When the 31st of Dec 2006 has still not comfortably found its place in its grave, and the 1st of Jan 2007 is still slowly crawling out of its womb…
Let’s look at the dead in a different light. It’s as good as talking about something that doesn’t come to life again. No second chances perhaps. From the profound to the mundane to the purely materialistic...
Like the max educational degree that I will ever attain. The PG from India’s highest ranked B-school, received in the year 2006. And the death of a few chances with it, for not being an elite top-grader therein.
Like one of the highest ranges our sensex will ever attain. And my delays in opening up accounts with brokers to invest in it.
Like the amazing prices Indian real-estate is commanding. And my inability to still ride the gravy train.
Like the visit to US with a stop-over in Paris. And my lack of planning to end up just roaming around only in the airport.
Like the weddings of all those friends. And my strange schedules which prevented me to attend even one of them…
Like the Art of Living session almost behind my house. And my callousness to not attend even an hour of it.
But of course, I have to thank 2006 for introducing me to Mumbai. It's a screwed up city allright, but admittedly, Churchgate, Marine Drive, Bandra, Andheri, Santacruz (even Goregaon and Malad for that matter) have become essential ingredients now...
Well… may the year 2006 rest in peace. And may the early shrill cries of this new year serve as guiding beacons towards a more fruitful conclusion next time.
Until then, cheers to 2007, and here's hoping that 365 days hence, I shall be writing a eulogy for you...
The point is, I don’t want this to be a summary. I don’t want this to be something that everyone does. Like a goodbye to a friend. Because this is not a goodbye. The friends might still come back, the year doesn’t. So what is this going to be? I guess the most logical genre would be – an obituary.
So let’s put it in that style then… and what better time than these wee hours of the morning. When the 31st of Dec 2006 has still not comfortably found its place in its grave, and the 1st of Jan 2007 is still slowly crawling out of its womb…
Let’s look at the dead in a different light. It’s as good as talking about something that doesn’t come to life again. No second chances perhaps. From the profound to the mundane to the purely materialistic...
Like the max educational degree that I will ever attain. The PG from India’s highest ranked B-school, received in the year 2006. And the death of a few chances with it, for not being an elite top-grader therein.
Like one of the highest ranges our sensex will ever attain. And my delays in opening up accounts with brokers to invest in it.
Like the amazing prices Indian real-estate is commanding. And my inability to still ride the gravy train.
Like the visit to US with a stop-over in Paris. And my lack of planning to end up just roaming around only in the airport.
Like the weddings of all those friends. And my strange schedules which prevented me to attend even one of them…
Like the Art of Living session almost behind my house. And my callousness to not attend even an hour of it.
But of course, I have to thank 2006 for introducing me to Mumbai. It's a screwed up city allright, but admittedly, Churchgate, Marine Drive, Bandra, Andheri, Santacruz (even Goregaon and Malad for that matter) have become essential ingredients now...
Well… may the year 2006 rest in peace. And may the early shrill cries of this new year serve as guiding beacons towards a more fruitful conclusion next time.
Until then, cheers to 2007, and here's hoping that 365 days hence, I shall be writing a eulogy for you...
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