Wednesday, December 4, 2013

woh din bhi thee





















woh din bhi thee
yeh din bhi hai
kishore ne kaha hai na
zindagi ke safar mei guzar jaate hai joh makam, 
phir nahi aate
aana jaana toh laga rehta hai
zyada phikr mat kariyega 
bass ek aas reh hati hai
yeh aas bhi meri nahi
raat din kahin na kahin bhaaga karti hai
mujhe saath liye jaati hai
unn galiyon mei phir chala jaata hoon
jaate jaate mera mann ek second rukta hai 
puchta hai
who chai ki dukaan abhi bhi wahan?
who kabhi cheeni paani ke saath nahi daalte thee..
kya pata.. ab toh bhaiya ki dukaan mei pouch wali chai milti hai
chalte chalte uss mod tak chala jaata hoon
zara ek saans chut jaati hai
aaj bhi dhadhkan ruk jaati hai sooch kar
kahin tum toh nahi nikal aaogi wahan se?
yeh pagal khayal bhi.. kuch nahi samjhte..
baas ek aas aur chodh jaate hai..
ha ha ha ha ha
bhujhi cigarette jala kar 
ek kash aur leta hoon
dhuei ke saath apne khayal bhi pee jaata hoon
woh din bhi thee
yeh din bhi hai.... 

Monday, December 2, 2013

Smiling at the face of tragedy!

Smiling at the face of tragedy
It doesn't matter
Like it never did
It's just one block of infinity gliding through heaven and hell
You're there
But you still aren't
Everything has a time
It's all been done before
It's all going to be done again
We're fleeting mirrors to our times
Strangers in our own houses
It's funny
I laugh it off
The fear creeps in
I cry
Tears dripping through those smirking lips
I hear a shout
They're here
I run
There comes a hall
Mirrors
Endless mirrors
Reflecting, retracting, retracing
I scream of joy
I'm the centre
They come running behind too
Shoots.. bang! bang! bang!
I jump
A bullet missed
Mirror down to crumbs
It's just me and you now
My guardian greatness dies
I run
You chase
We keep running
A lady on the track
Eyes meet
I slip through that one flip of your eyes
On point blank
Comes the bullet and what..
It passes through
And I sit there smiling at my own tragedy....


Friday, November 15, 2013

Late night paranoia!

Dope unsettles. Well, a doped out romantic would say, only to settle you again. But has anyone ever settled? Fighting with these rather ambiguous thoughts, I stood there at the Kanpur Central. Shit was getting too messy. This can't go on. No I wasn't going to jump on a train, backout of the station. Standing at a pan ki dukkan, at late hours, smoking classic milds. Nothing articulates urban youths misery better than the smoke of milds. So there I was, it was about time for namaaz, with some smakiyas passing around. We started conversing with a young haryanvi baba cut man, a proud owner of a chillum. Smoking ganja, little by little, sitting almost on the centre of the street, right across the main station entrance. How does one not love this country? Anyway, we start talking. I don't remember much of what he said, but didn't seem to be much curious to talk to us. Why would a guy slightly older than me, who now wears an orange costume on a daily basis take me seriously? He'd not shaved for almost a year, where I was just modestly three weeks unshaven. But he did say something, that stayed with me. When we offered him a joint, he refused saying, "yahan toh nanga milta hai, usme toh kapde ka sauda hai."
"Waah waah.. Waaaaah kya baat hai" unanimous applaud. A friend sneakily whispers, senior hai bey. Sipping one of the most disgusting teas of my life, lost in that moment we all laugh. The laugh doesn't stop, but the pretension starts to shatter. "Why am I playing along? This isn't really taking me anywhere? What the fuck am I doing here right now?" As the thoughts keep getting more fierce, I take another drag. "Yes my friend, we do seem to have a bit of a problem here. what do I really do? I mean what can anyone really do anyway? I mean I know I'm way better than those million rags out there, but still? It's huge, it's fucking huge. How do you release yourself from the burden of normalcy? How do you convince yourself to be some weird cracko doing his own thing, when you've basically played safe all your life? Or wait.. What if I was just unconsciously always doing my own thing, while still being looked as normal? So is it about me or the world? Fuck it, I don't know." I call out for my friends. Walking to the pan wala, he already has my cigarettes ready. What a bitch of a beautiful man! A middle aged muslim man, with hyper interesting opinions. His story, well for some other day. But we were all seated there along the footpath, half doped out. My friends knew I was off, they knew not meddling right now is a wiser choice. "Ek story sunoge?" I decide to tell them a story I wrote. I start, I'm slightly shaky. The namaz seems to have started, it's growing louder. The fading street voices start mingling with my own. My voice slowly seems to be getting in sync with squeaky noises from road rags. I keep going. I have introduced my characters. I can see it all moving, I see it fly my side. Five minutes into the narration, I'm not even narrating anymore. The story is narrating itself. I'm just speaking. Just mere recitation. I don't know where this is coming from. The namaz giving the natural background score, bringing in the ever flowing unease. I'm sitting there, speaking. Speaking non stop, reaching my last lines, grinningly describing the dying sequence of my protagonist. As he takes that bullet on his chest with an ecstatic smile! Ufff. The train starts moving, moves out.. As if the train driver knew exactly when to give me that fading sound. I sit there stunned. I'm quiet. Quiet for next good thirty seconds. Friends, full excited for me. I knew what had happened. I knew it. I couldn't say it out loud, but I knew it. I knew that even though I had written that story, I was way smaller than that story. It's always that way. By the time I finished narrating, I knew I had fallen in love again with the most glorious job of all human existence. Stories. Fucking stories, if it wasn't for stories, I wouldn't be who I am. Forget me, if there were no stories, we'd have stopped living way before. Fear is a little part of the bigger excitement. I'll learn to fight it. I'll grow up. It'll pass. But all that matters is, something is happening. I feel it, but that's all I can say about it.
"Bhaiya ek classic mild aur milegi..."

Sunday, September 8, 2013

"Jeevan se hai maut sasti"

Doono ek saath mare
Ek mahal mein
ek mahal ke bahar naale mein 
Mahal wale chilla pade
Woh bata ke gaye the.. 
Mai marunga toh 1 biga zameen mein hi gadunga
Par kaise? 
Pata nahi par hoga toh wahi 
Do hisse hogaye
Dono taraf se lad pade
Ek bola kaat de
Dusra bola kaat ke faila de
Kya baat ki hai
Aaj woh hote toh tumhe inaam dete
Sab mann gaye 
Kato kato kato
Kisne kahan marne ke baad yeh sab nahi rehta? 
Jaldi kato 
Tezi se kaato
Hum sachchi praja hai
Utee mein mahal wali laash zor se hil kar gir padi
Sab chauke
Pucha gaya toh pata chala usi samay naale wali laash bhi hili thi
Ek bachcha bol raha tha
Dono bade khush they
Kuch samjha rahe thee woh usko
Hass hass kar ke bol rahe thee 
Kuch kaatne ke wajood ki baat kar rahe thee..
Pata nahi
Aaj puri kheer milegi mandir mei?
Chalo sab wahi milenge... 

Monday, September 2, 2013

When Tagore Shot Me Down

Where the mind is without fear
in the weeping hours of faded dope
a sly smile will kill you
as the passionless breasts lose out taste
and the blurry stream of reason
falls victim to my molly pride
we fall in love with the mundane rot
where the heads are held high 
and the men are sold for free
when the existential awakening reaches its zenith
bullets are traded for thought
because thoughts don't come free
the world has been united by those erratic hollow bellies 
where the mind is lead forward by thee
into the sanguine arms of death 
into that heaven of misery
my darling, let my country awake !   

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Ek raasta, ek cigarette

hum sab bus chalte jaa rahe hain
kahan aur kidhar
deepak chopra ke sivay kisi ko nahi pata
sab void lagta hai
kuch karne ka mann nahi karta
parr karien bhi toh kya

koi saala kehta hain purpose dhundho
koi kehta hai hai andhar jhaank
koi kehta hai pyaar kar
hum bhi cigarette peete peete sirr hilate rehte hain

chalte chalte unki baatien meri baatien banti jaati hai
who bada aadmi hai 
sahi hi keh raha hoga
humein kya pata
hum to sadak chap recorder type chutiye hain

samay guzarta rahega
ek din aayega
sab saale ek jaise bann chuke honge
har koi wahi kahega
har koi wahi karega
sab corrupt antaryami honge
shayad uss din yeh chaos resolve ho jaye
tab toh bass iss cigarette ka sahara hai 

~Srijan 
mtl '13 

Friday, April 19, 2013

Why Kashyap cracks Cannes every year?


me - oye sunn, maine ek nai script likhi hai.. i think its angry..very angry.."
she - toh? yaar mere se yeh sab baatien mat karo.. 
me - hah.. how do you not react to what's happening around you?
she - yaaar...
me - did you hear of watertown shootings last night?
she - yaar, kya karna jaan ke, srijan not in a mood right now.. you know i bought a new top..


Why did I start with that? I don't really know. It has nothing to do with what i'm going to write. It's just a little talk, I had with a friend last night. Why doesn't India create great cinema? How is it that in a country of the size of India, the number of really political filmmakers can be counted on finger tips? How does Kashyap manage to get a movie or two into Cannes every year? Why does the discussion end at Dibakar or Bala or Umesh Kulkarni or Q (dare you say Prakash Jha)? In a population of the size of 600 million (ya the other half needs toilets before going out and directing movies), why do we just have a handful of filmmakers who talk about real themes? 

I think there could be one possible reason for all of these questions. How many of you have seen Midnight in Paris? I'm sure, almost everybody. We all love Woody Allen! aah why doesn't Adi Chopra go stay with Allen for a week and learn how to make movies? anyways, what did you think of that movie? A hollywood scriptwriter turned writer, trying to find his voice? Romancing with a Paris, especially of the 20s, helping him come in terms with himself? Thats what I thought too. Somehow, didn't make a lot of sense to me. Anybody who has seen 3-4 movies of Allen, will deny this movie. Not that it's not a superb film, but where did the Woody cynicism go? where did that pessimism, the conflicted nature of oneself and his whimsical idea of love go? Life is short, and I didn't try to figure out, whatever, he perhaps is a happy man now. 

Until recently, when I read this essay on Midnight in Paris, on some film journal website. The writer suggested, that Midnight in Paris was more of a lament than anything. A lament on the glorious artistic days of the past. A bunch of American and European artists, hanging out together, writing, painting, boozing in 'Paari', as they call it. More than anything, the process of Gil Pender getting to hang out with these guys, post midnights, changed him. It's not the city, but whole artistic culture of 20s, which helped him write a profound book and yes, dump his sophisticated yet beautifully artificial girlfriend. Was he really in love with Adriana? Maybe yes, or maybe for the first time he found someone who accepted him with is naiveness. It was that new found courage, that changed him. The courage, he got by hanging around these eccentric and erratic, yet supremely talented beings. What Woody says through Midnight in Paris, is that, that period is past. It's never coming back again, and perhaps, we might not be able to create great art anymore.

This perfectly applies to the Indian cinema. Not that, I know any filmmakers or writers personally, but this culture of creating art and artists coming together doesn't exist. Except the cute chain smoking and bearded, pretentious college goers. The culture where your friends will hail your work one night, only to trash it the next day. Why? Because when they went back to bed, they really looked through it, and could very well next morning say that to your face. Yes, that's how it's supposed to be. In India, I very strongly feel, being an filmmaker (or any kind of artist) is a sort of alienating job. People around you, are so lost being practical (I fucking hate this word, but can't think of another one), that that practicality gets you. The reality doesn't allow, surreality to sneak in. And that's rather fair, because they aren't god damn filmmakers. They've to earn their bread. But for a filmmaker, he needs that community. That community of filmmakers, where you can be discussing movies, each others movies all day long. Adore it, hate it.. but all the way through, be brutally honest about it. What we see here, is a more of solitary creation of good(sometimes) art, spread across the country. But, seldom they all come together. There is no dialogue that happens. Ya, maybe there might be those 5-6 filmmakers who enjoy such relationships, but its far from being a culture.

Having that community, that culture has the potential to change you. If not change, then definitely help you grow as an artist. And artistic growth is what we rarely see in India. The fact, that everybody is just functioning separately, doesn't allow that natural growth to happen. All you're doing is competing with yourself. All these creative dope heads have massive narcissistic tendencies. Oh, get over it. You might be an artist, but you're still a fucking human. And you will function like one. I'm not trying to say that having a community, will change our cinema overnight. it won't But it'll help us leverage our Indian advantage. The advantage of staying in a country as crazy India, and being surrounded by plain bizarre stuff. And somewhere there finding our much needed political voice. And I feel this is something Kashyap realized or accidentally gained. Be it his PFC years or his existing connections with international and Indian filmmakers (as it seems), he somehow has had the luxury of being around people who are into exactly what he's into. I won't say he's India's best filmmaker or any of that crap, but he's definitely the filmmaker, who's growth is most apparent. He probably gets it, he gets why that culture is important. And probably because of this, he's been able to build a filmmaking ecosystem around him.I don't think he does it because he wants to be the Indian Indie flag bearer, as most of the press tags him. He does it, because he knows the value of that system. He probably knows, that it's that brutally informal culture, that nourishes any kind of art form.

As Hemingway tells Gil on why he won't read his book... 

"If it's bad, I'll hate it. If it's good, then I'll be envious and hate it even more. You don't want the opinion of another writer"

...ya that's the only line we heard from that movie.

P.S. Yes, it's a pretentious title.