The Teachings of Darkness

As oncoming headlights peep in for fleeting glances,
and the shroud of darkness envelopes His sinning masses;
when the rest of the world turns a turn in sleep,
and thousands of horses gallop across on wheels.

When the comfort of azure skies has all but vanished,
and the floor of the bus rocks in lullabic rhythms;
when the night-crawlers are, for a sleepy day, famished,
and birds all nestling, safe in their dwellings.

As the lights go dim for the longest hour,
and weary commuters snore away their care;
when guards are lowered, swords are sheathed;
when no laws function, and all is fair.

 When eyes are heavy with un-shed tears,
of pain and pity, longing and fear;
when the breast is burdened with worldly bother,
and the countenance withered like an autumned flower.

As the skin is reddened, courtesy winged parasites,
and bowels churn with hunger and dysfunction;
as diffident ideas take shape and crumble,
gutted in the raging fires of reason.

When hopes are watered with the essence of reality,
and the imminence of solitary life all but realized;
when the night engulfs and greets as an equal,
and the tremulous journey equates the tranquil end.

When miles pass by and the heart cares no more,
no qualms with the past, no losses to bemoan;
It is then, past midnight, that it dawns on me,
that I am a man, all on my own.
 

Chapter 3: Twice Shy

[Continued from here.]

Abject darkness, a violent jerk, and a cold riveting slap on her left cheek awoke her.

Déjà vu.

She knew where she was an instant before she opened her eyes; she could smell the perfumed air of the room. Her head throbbed like the last time.

Yes, the same mahogany wall, the same portraits of a man on a crucifix, the same angelic smiles, the same ‘Sherlocked’ t-shirt gracing her body. She stood up with great effort, hoisting her body up. Her head wheeled, both from the physical blow and mental befuddlement.

ये हो क्या रहा है!? कैसी जगह है ये?

She looked around herself, being doubly cautious of any sight of the woman and the man she had encountered the last time. Behind her stood the same contraption she had entered only a few seconds ago, to escape from her company. She entered the machine and examined it. It had what seemed like a metallic control panel, with wire endings, knobs and keys all over the surface. It was all very raw and unfinished; it lacked the general polish and completeness of the room. The ‘go’ button seemed to make the most sense to her, although she was apprehensive to the idea of pressing it again, in fear of falling to the floor once over.

She got out of the ‘cupboard’ and went over to the doorway, walking on tiptoe, making the least sound possible. She sneaked from the edge of the opening, trying to hear anything. A very faint conversation could be made out, with frequent interjections of laughter. It seemed to be a fairly one-sided conversation, made between a rather taciturn man (growling disinterested ‘hmm’s for the most of the part) and a rather too loquacious female with a high-pitched voice.

Judging the source of the voices to be distant enough for her to brave the hallway, she walked out of the room surreptitiously. Having walked only a few paces, to her immediate right there appeared another bedroom, a vacant and unfurnished one, apparently unoccupied. Two windows in the room opened into a dark outside view, darkened by the house’s shadow being cast across a large, secluded country road. It was, as the last time, an evening.

Suddenly, she heard the sounds of movement and footsteps from the end of the hallway. She swore under her breath and nimbly dived into the vacant room. She hid herself by placing her back to the bedroom wall, pressing her ear against it. The footsteps, marked with feminine fastidiousness, came closer. She pressed herself as far away from view of the hallway as possible, and dreaded her discovery like the last time. Holding her breath, she became as clandestine as a living human could hope to be.

The sound passed through the hallway, and into the room she had come out of. The footsteps paused at a spot, shuffled around and a sudden, stifled gasp was heard. The woman with the extremely high-pitched voice she had met only minutes ago, shouted again, “Onkel Elois! Komm hier doch, es ist etwas im Schlafzimmer!”

Once more, she couldn’t make out the language she spoke, but it did not sound Indian in origin. The ‘kh’s and ‘g’s were guttural and deep-throated.

मुझे कैसे मालुम की यह भाषा Indian नहीं? शायद मुझे partial memory loss है...

A masculine grunt responded to the woman’s callings from the other side of the house. A movement was heard, a chair creaked and the man audibly got up on his feet. There was another brief exchange between the two, after which the man started to make his way to the bedroom.

Listening to the conversation, she could not pick out the meanings of the words, but could grasp the sway of the dialogue by its tone. She could figure out that the woman had not taken well to the contraption kept in the room. Her mind began racing; for the second time that evening, she had an incomprehensible urge to stop them from inspecting the machine up close. Added to the perpetual feeling of being utterly lost in a foreign world and being caught up in a recurring time-warp nightmare, her state of mind was chaotic and numb. To top it all, she had no memory whatsoever…

दो options:

1. खिड़की से बाहर निकलूँ, अपने आस-पास की surroundings को जानूँ-परखूँ।

2. Room में जाऊं, उन लोगों से बात करूँ, समझने की कोशिश करूँ कि मैं हूँ कहाँ।

She had to act fast, for the man’s footsteps drew nearer to the room, slimming the window of time she had before she could act on the first option. Doing it any time after he had passed the room would mean risking discovery, since the overlooking window was in partial sight of the bedroom.She thought over it for the few seconds she had with her.

मैं जो भी हूँ, जहां भी हूँ, human हूँ। ये लोग भले ही मुझे पहचाने नहीं, मगर मेरी life के लिए कोई ख़तरा नहीं हैं। बेहतर यही होगा की मैं शान्तिपूर्वक अन्दर जाऊं, इनसे reason out करूँ, और अपनी इस गुमनामी की आवस्था से बाहर आऊँ…

The man was now in the corridor, and there was no going back. She waited him to pass and be with the woman, and stood up with intent. She paced into the room decidedly, and both its occupants turned around in utter surprise. It was the same young and short woman she had met before, accompanied by a burly, thick-bearded man who was scowling disapprovingly at her. They looked equally surprised like the last time, gaping wordlessly at her person, surveying her from head to toe. In contrast to her casual and ill-fitting tee and faded jeans, the couple wore elaborate overalls; the man sported a black tuxedo and a white shirt with winged collars and the woman, like last time, a simple evening gown of faint pink hue.

The man, having looked at her long enough to pass all limits of propriety, finally lowered his gaze and addressed her in his faltering yet robust voice.

“Wie heißen Sie, Fraulein? Woher kommen Sie? Dies ist privates Eigentum, wie haben Sie Ihren Weg in?”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” she said, trying to get across to the man in English, her second language. The man tried to make out her words, wrinkling his nose.

“Sie, English?” He asked, stammering.

“Yes! Yes, I speak English,” she said in delight.

“Gut, sehr gut! Ich – entschuldigung - I mean, I also understand English,” he replied, making a laborious effort to enunciate in English. “How you come in? Who is you,” he asked.

She gulped, unsure of what to say. She did not want to appear to be a tramp or a vagrant stumbling in on a happy household. She did not want to seem alien. She couldn’t possibly tell them she had no recollection whatsoever about how she had landed up in the house, falling out of the same machine, twice.

“I know not, sir,” she said in very small voice. “I fell out of that machine there,” she said, pointing to the box kept in the corner.

The man looked towards it, and asked, “You come from that? How?”

मुझे क्या घंटा मालूम होगा!

“I don’t know, sir. I just landed here, out of thin air,” she gestured at the carpeted floor.

The man looked perplexed, and growingly agitated. He exchanged a word with the woman, who seemed petrified and repulsed by the prospect of dealing with the strange woman.

The man said, “So you not knowing how you come…” He seemed to be engaged in deep thought, contemplating his next move.

गलत हो गया यहाँ आना, मुझे बाहर ही निकल लेना चाहिए था.

"I think you lie, Fraulein,” said the man at once, rising from his state of thought. “I think you black magic woman!”

She panicked at the accusation. The man walked a few paces away from her, holding the woman closer to himself. She implored, “No, I’m not a witch! I do not remember who I am or how I came here! Please, help me.” Her pleas, however, seemed to fall on deaf ears, as the man and woman exchanged hushed monosyllables to each other, never letting her out of side, constantly edging back.

The man whispered something like an order to the woman, to which she nodded nervously. The man man left the woman’s side, made a neat arc around where the stranger stood, and tried to get out of the room.

Despite her protests, the couple would hear none of what she had to say. The last resort, she thought, was to jump into the machine again and hope against hope that she won’t re-spawn again in the twisted timewarp. A strange fear gripped her as the man exited the room, and she turned around and dashed to the contraption. She heard the woman gasp shrilly at the sudden movement, but there was no stopping her now. She had made a bad decision and now was the time to rectify it.

She jumped inside the enclosure, and for the second time that evening, pressed the big red ‘go’ button with all her hope.

काश इस बार सब ठीक हो जाए, और मैं किसी normal सी दुनिया में किसी बुरे सपने से जागूँ…

*

Guruji’s slightly smug expression wore off, as the unfaltering lines of code dictating his upright character vetoed those constituting his ‘natural’ instincts. He turned around to face the back end of the stage, looking expectantly at the left wing, awaiting the guest of the day to arrive in all her glory. The entire school assembly followed his sight, awaiting the spectacle.

Sounds of approaching footsteps emanated from the backstage area; they were taut and evenly-paced. Many amongst the younger lot were baffled about how a person so long departed could join them to celebrate her own birthday, but the slightly older ones, who were acquainted with the miraculously infinite possibilities of virtual immersive simulation, had coolly suppressed any outward display of their initial shock. Of course, some of them murmured to their neighbors, it could be a personality emulation of the great scientist that would address them. Or, even better, it could be a grade-Z certified case of time travel, allowing her to come forth into her future and kick off her own birthday celebration, in the institution named after her.

It was Amrita Jamwal, after all, who had invented time travel; or, so to say, chalked out the intricacies and minute laws that governed the transportation of matter through space and time.

The woman, putting to end the fanciful chains of thoughts the students had conjectured, appeared nonchalantly on the left wing of the stage, beaming with amicability and what seemed to be genuine humility. Her appearance made certain, at once, the medium she had taken to be present in the midst on her 110^th birthday, despite her very obvious lack of physical existence: virtual personality reconstruction.

She was beautiful beyond human measure; a hyper-aestheticized caricature of what might once have been a human. Her rosy lips gleamed in the stage lights, her impeccably lined teeth shone uniformly, and a pallid, perfectly symmetrical face commanded gazes from all around. She wore a gold-bordered red sari with the élan of a 20^th Century Bollywood* heroine, topping it with unbridled hair and just about a dash of kohl around her eyes. Her ethereal looks had given many an adolescent sitting closer to the stage a resilient boner, making them hold their organs down with their hands, trying with all their effort to pass it off as a normal sitting position. A wave of mutual understanding ran off between the students, and their collective embarrassment became a motif for solidarity.

The fact remained that she was only a hyper-bloated vision of the real Amrita Jamwal. Her real-life personality had been minutely monitored, fed into and replicated by the labyrinthine pathways of the biggest and most powerful AI softwares in the world. As a crowning genius of the world’s greatest recreationists, her personality had been ‘time-tuned’ to perfection. It meant that additional information, in keeping with the subsequent technological advances of man had been fed to her personality and socialized accordingly. To top it off, she had been given a specially reserved appearance, that of the most beautiful and in-demand physical figures of the female gender. And hence, her reconstruction was ready to greet the world as if she had never been gone.

She walked in confident strides towards the microphone, and, tapping it superfluously in a jestful gesture of old-worldly re-enactment, started to speak in an impeccably smooth and uninhibited dainty voice.

“सुप्रभात, मेरे प्यारे छात्रों! मैं हूँ अमृता जमवाल, और आज मैं आपको, इस पाक सालगिरह के अवसर पर, अवगत कराऊंगी जीवन के एक अपरिहार्य सत्य से, जिसे हम कहते हैं…”

The students waited with bated breath for her to finish her sentence, as she radiated a smile, taking a long pause to up the anticipation.

“'असफ़लता' |"

(*Bollywood: An era of motion pictures, starting in the second half of 20^th Century and lasting till the mid-21^st Century, best remembered for its gaudy and garish aesthetic sensibilities, largely incoherent narrative and unoriginal, insipid craftsmanship. Came to an end with the decline of the motion pictures as an economic activity, and the inevitable rise of Cinema Gratis, or the ‘नि:शुल्क चित्रपट’.)

[To be continued…]

तरक्की

मिट्टी जिसमें कभी थे लिपटे,

आज हो गई है मैली;

हो गए सब गलतियों के परे,

सयाने हो गए हैं सब।

Bat-ball जो खेला करते,

गलती करते, फिर सम्भलते;

छिले घुटने, रूखे केश,

बीते कल के बचे-कुचे अवशेष।

होली का मदमस्त हड़कंप,

गाली देते पक्के यार;

वो रात-रात का गुम हो जाना,

वो छुप-छुप के पहला प्यार।

कड़ाकेचूर दिल्ली की सर्दी,

ठिठुरते बदन पे रजाई की सेंक;

सुबह से पहले झट-पट जगना,

Bus के छूटने का रोमांच।

Bus के हिचकोलों के संग,

नींद का आखिरी पल तक आभास;

स्कूल दूर से आते देख,

मन का स्वयं ही बुझ-सा जाना।

सत्रह-अठारह के पहाड़े रटना,

साथ-साथ साईं का जाप;

पार लगे अपनी ये नैय्या,

मन में हो बस यही अलाप।

आज कहाँ कोई है निर्भर,

किसी और के साथ को;

पाठ पढ़ लिए, चपत पड़ चुके 

अब काहे का बचपन मोह।

लोगबाग सब बदल गए हैं,

या शायद हूँ बदला मैं;

चलो, रुको मत, आगे बढ़ो,

खूब बनो सयाने सब।

Chapter 2: Rules of the Game

(Continued from here)

Students of Shrimati Amrita Jamwal Memorial Public School milled around the yet-to-open gates to the assembly hall, waiting for the morning bell to ring in its shrill, perturbing note and kick start the proceedings of another boring Tuesday morning.

It was a particularly grey morning, and the unevenly grouped mass of students wound their navy blue winter uniforms closer to their shivering bodies, insulating themselves to their best ability from the unforgiving cold. A few nervous latecomers were sneaking their way into the waiting crowd, hoping against hope that none of the staff and faculty members had taken note of their clandestine movements. Dark clouds hung threateningly over their heads and their mouths formed thick smoke when they spoke to each other feverishly, sharing the latest gossip, reading out news items from mobile phones and laughing over trivialities. The few teachers who had braved the long walk from their in-campus homes to the school assembly hall were still rubbing their eyes and covering their yawns reverently, in equal annoyance of the biting cold as the children.

It was, in a nutshell, very easy to overlook that all of them were, in fact, in a shared 20^th century simulation.

And yet, it was absolutely true. The affluent parent community of the Dharavi suburb had an obsessive fixation with the late 20^th century sensibilities of erstwhile ‘Indian’ schooling system, especially in those areas where it involved immaculate uniforms to be worn by their young ones, with spick and span bow ties for the pre-primary crop and impressive navy blue neckties for the older lot. Girls were made to wear knee-length skirts with utmost finesse, and the ‘gentlemen’ were expected to adorn deep blue trousers without a hint of a crease. And so, with just the right amount of virtual personalization and tweaking (not to mention countless trips back to 1999), the simulation of a luxurious antiquity was perfected.

A sprawling campus was spawned, complete with an Olympic-size swimming pool (a generous borrowing from the early 21^st century), a sports arena and teachers well versed in Hindi, Chinese, Japanese and even (the almost extinct) English. Laws and shrubs were impeccably imitated, artsy fountains and showpieces were painstakingly erected; a cutting-edge activity centre, a continuously updating Library of the World, and a few spacious lecture halls just to add a pinch of old-worldliness were architected. With the installation of the latest Globally-Recognised Syllabus (GRS), a selective range of 20^th century rules and regulations, and all-subject reference books, the Shrimati Amrita Jamwal Public School had come into virtual conception.

The fact that it contrasted so obliquely with the ‘uncultured’ 22^nd Century education system only made fruitful the concerned parents’ idea to have (literally) looked backward in time for inspiration. For the umpteenth time, the adage ‘old is gold’ found itself re-iterated and testified, much to the obvious glee of the Dharavi parents.

And so, with the shrill note of the morning bell, began another day at SAJMP School. The students started filling into the spacious hall through the automatically opened gates, monitored by the prefects and staff members. There was the customary hustle and bustle and shoving around, before everyone settled down in their designated spots on the iron benches, still yapping away at their neighbours, bantering to no end. A tall, gaunt gentleman in his 50s manned the stage microphone (complete with 20^th century fixtures and appearance), whom the students admiringly addressed simply as ‘Guruji’.

Guruji was, apart from being a zillion lines of code and programming, a revered pedagogue and educationist. His image was, as the independently run school magazine reported (in eccentrically outdated English), that of a ‘hard-ass’. He wore a creaseless black suit to school every day, and sported a deceptively deadpan expression all day long. He taught the subjects Physics and Hindi to all classes except the pre-primary block.

His voice, amplified and booming on the microphone, put all the hasty conversations to an abrupt rest.

“छात्रों, कृपया अपनी बातों को विराम दीजिये, और आज के कार्यक्रम पर गौर कीजिये।”

All the students, from standard 1^st to 12^th let out a collective, prolonged sigh. Whenever Guruji announced that a ‘कार्यक्रम’ was to follow, it meant an additional 45 minutes of extended assembly, comprising a guest lecture, a play or a performance (or all of them). Some of the audacious pupils decided to switch on their invisible music attachments, which would play their favourite ‘Shastriya-dubstep’ numbers whilst their neighbours would hear not a beat. If caught, they were sure to be suspended; but the kids knew that the winter chill had everyone, including the usually vigilant teachers in a lethargic mood, and a surprise check was highly unlikely.

Guruji, trying not to take into account the lack of enthusiasm of the students, continued in his unfaltering Hindi, “आज, जैसा कि आप में से कुछ लोग जानते होंगे, इस विद्यालय से सम्बंधित एक बहुत एहेम वर्षगाँठ है। कौन-कौन यह जानता है की आज किस उपलक्ष में हम यह कार्यक्रम कर रहे हैं? अपने हाँथ उठाएँ।”

Apprehensively, a few front-sitters (usually the most sycophantic and nerdy lot) raised their hands, bent unsurely at the elbows. Guruji scanned the measly group, then picked one of the best performing students from his class, Aarti, to answer his question.

Aarti, an 11^th standard, chubby, introverted girl stood up, awkward and fidgety. She stumbled with her spoken Hindi, even though her written language was impeccably refined. 

“सुप्रभात, गुरूजी। आज श्रीमती अमृता जमवाल, जिन के नाम पर हमारे विद्यालय का नाम पड़ा है, उनका जन्मदिन है।”

Guruji said with an uncharacteristic smile, “बिल्कुल सही कहा, आरती! बैठ जाओ।” Then, addressing the whole audience, he continued, “छात्रों, आज हमारे देश की परम-सिद्ध वैज्ञानिक, श्रीमती अमृता जमवाल का 110वाँ जन्मदिन है। इस आयोजन का प्रारंभ करने के लिए हमारे बीच खुद श्रीमती अमृता जमवाल मौजूद हैं। “

The children’s derisive sighs and impatient jabber died out almost instantaneously. The students who knew that their neighbors were plugged into music informed them of the announcement in hushed voices.

Guruji smiled the slightest of smiles, satisfied at the students’ surprise and silence. The mood, as he had hoped, was set.

(Read Chapter 3)

चक्रव्यूह: A short story in parts

[FOREWORD: This is another of my episodic science fiction stories, the first one being 'Stunted'. It's not inspired by any ONE story or idea in particular, but a lot of writing that I've been healthily exposed to over the past few years of my life. It's more 'spec-fic' (speculative fiction) than science fiction, primarily because it is set in a highly unlikely universe. It is not grounded in any scientifically-sound principle or explanation, instead being based on mere fantastical speculation of the future. Also, it's bilingual (Hindi and English); my apologies to my English-only readers (if you exist, that is). So yes, hope you like it. I'll be adding chapters every once a while, so keep reading!]

       

1. There’s always a first time 

Abject darkness, a violent jerk, and a cold riveting slap on her left cheek awoke her. She lay still, resting her weight on her cheek, sensing that it wasn’t the surface that hit her but she who’d toppled to the ground. She opened her eyes and braved sitting upright.

Her head pained from the shock of a nasty blow. Her vision was blurry, and the world floated around her, puddled and dreamlike. She rubbed her eyes and everything slid into clarity. She opened them to their maximum extent, surveying her whereabouts…

मैं…कहाँ हूँ?

She looked down frantically to her body, her arms and legs, her body, her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair, the topography of her face and the trenches of her collarbones. She was wearing jeans (मुझे इस garment का नाम कैसे पता?) and a plain yellowing t-shirt with the words ‘I am Sherlocked’ plastered over its length. She did not have any memory of any of it. The last thing she knew, she had been…

मैं क्या कर रही थी?

Nothing came through; no epiphany, no brainwave. No recollection whatsoever. The room she was presently in was a spacious, bare bedroom with minimal fixtures and frills. Many framed black and white photographs of a young woman and two cherubic infants hung on the mahogany bedroom wall to her left. The walls were also adorned by many a gory hangings of a crucified man on a cross-shaped wooden altar. The windows on her right opened into direct sunlight, emanating from a setting sun (she could make it out from the long shadows the trees in the distance cast across an overlooking pond). A four poster bed occupied the centre space of the room.

She tried recalling her name, her nationality, her occupation, anything that’d rid her of the lack of self-identity, but failed.

She spun around to face the half-open bedroom door that revealed part of a hallway, at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were muffled, slightly hurried for some odd reason – feminine. She stood rooted to her spot, awkwardly waiting for the person on the other side of the door to arrive and confront her.

The door opened with a creak, and a young woman (दीवार पे टंगी photos में से एक) dressed in an elaborate gown faced her. Before she could explain anything, the woman shuddered and stepped back in apparent shock. The woman’s face became pallid and contorted in surprise as she asked in a stuttering voice, “Wer bist du, Frau? Was mach-machst du hier?”

Unable to understand a word she had been addressed to in, she managed a cough in reply, surprised at her own low-pitched voice, watching the woman retreat slowly.

“I-I don’t understand, ma’am. मुझे खुद कुछ समझ नहीं आ रहा…” she struggled to find the right words; gesturing at the place she had gained consciousness. The woman didn’t seem to understand. Visibly taken aback at the sight of a stranger in her house (was it hers?), shouted to call someone from inside the house.

“Onkel Elois! Wir haben einer…unbekannten Frau in unserem Schlafzimmer!”

The woman grew frantic, speaking unintelligibly under her breath, awaiting company. Her youthful face seemed flushed and spoilt by the sudden perturbation. An inquisitive, masculine growl echoed from behind her, probably from one of the other rooms in the house. The woman responded in the foreign tongue, still eyeing her with suspicion and caution. She no longer made any attempts to communicate with her, and neither did she. She could now hear another pair of footsteps, heavy and slow, coming her way at the woman’s call. 

And that was when it hit her. She had momentarily spun behind to see the spot where she had found herself awake. She was taken by surprise by an oddly out-of-place contraption lying in a narrow corner against the wall. It was the size and shape of a small cupboard. In contrast to the stately walls and the dark hues of everything in the room, its surface was squalid and soiled in a greyish tint. Its metallic surface was uneven and dented, and a network of wire-ends and coils jutted out at odd angles. It had a small – panel – inside it, with a few keys and a screen dotting its surface.

It’s ominous appearance notwithstanding, it seemed a safer haven to her (again, for no explicable reason) than a shocked young woman speaking in an alien tongue and an unseen man growling back in an equally unknown language.

The approaching sound of boots falling on carpeted floor seemed closer by the moment. Gripped by a sudden fear of the unknown, she made a run for the cupboard-shaped ‘पता-नहीं-क्या’. She didn't know what she’d do once inside, but that was the only place she had a chance of hiding in from whoever was coming to confront her. The last thing she saw from the corner of her eye was the woman panicking and speaking loudly to herself, before she lunged inside.

She regained her bearings quickly, knowing she had no time to lose. Strangely, she didn't quite know what her fault was and why she had had the desire to scram; but somehow, she knew she would be in deep shit if she didn't make herself scarce.

The woman had disappeared from the doorway. The panel of buttons and keys protruded from the back end, at the level of half the height of the ‘यंत्र’. There appeared the numbers ‘2013’ on a black screen on the panel. A metallic key loudly announcing ‘GO’ was etched out of it, making it quite obvious to her to press it without delay. She did so and – BOOM. Her body was thrown forward with a sudden, invisible shove, knocking her right off her feet.

She heard the final shrieks of the woman, this time accompanied by a masculine voice, but they seemed very far away already, fading away, going farther…

-
Chapter 2

An honest, literary self portrait.

This is the (very) early morning of 27^th January, 2013, and I find myself unable to sleep. Not because I had overslept in the afternoon or have had very less exercise to make me tired enough to doze off. It’s just that, I uploaded my first ever short film on youtube today. I got rave reviews from almost everyone who saw it, and I can bet that some of the most flattering of all were completely true and honest. It gives me a whole new kind of high to think of myself as a good enough storyteller; to be counted in the same ranks as so many talented and creative people out there producing godawesome works of visual art on social media and beyond, not in lieu of any monetary or professional payoff, but just for the heck of creating something they really want to.

I have wanted to be a selfless artist: one who, at the very core of their art, does it for nothing but itself, who does it without any other motive than the completion of the artwork itself in mind. I have wanted to be such a person so much, that today when I see myself being hailed as one by so many of my near and dear ones, it feels unreal and too good to be true.

Remember that funny feeling in the tummy when something exciting is just around the corner, and you’re completely pepped up in anticipation? That slight, prolonged tickle that doesn’t let you rest until the particular task concludes? I’ve been feeling that for over a day now. And it’s great, it’s indescribably huge. It makes me the most self-centred person for the present moment; I am the greatest person who could ever be. It makes me want to be immortal really bad. It makes me want to be god, and makes me wish there were a god: me.

Thank you world, because I cannot thank something or someone of whose very existence I doubt. Thank you, all the people who make me who I am. I know it sounds very complacent and high-handed (because, well, it is), but today it’s me who matters. And, I think if we ponder a little while, we all think the same. And I believe that this amount of ego is healthy and constructive, if not vital to our being.

Or maybe I’m just riding too high on my appreciation and all this is the random useless late night ramble.

qt pi: My first ever short film outing

It's grainy, poorly lit and the sound is a let down. The chat sequences are a tad long, and it's unnaturally loquacious for a 12 minute film.
Still, it's close to my heart because it's my first outing as a filmmaker. It has been a collective effort throughout, with all of the actors and others behind the camera shedding their sweat and tears over this project. We've sacrificed little in terms of finances or time, but it has not been a cakewalk.
Let me not take any more of your time. Go ahead and watch the film, comment, criticize, shrug off, or close it midway; whatever you do, I owe you my heartfelt thanks. A big shoutout to all our benefactors and motivators, without whom 'qt pi' could never have taken concrete shape.
Thank you, world.

सुलगते विचार

अभी सूर्या पतन से दूर है,

दिन का ढलना बाकी है...

पैर के तलवे फिलहाल मुलायम हैं, 

पर भी हैं फूटे नहीं, आँखे भी सिंची नहीं,

प्यार तो किया है, पर दिल को ठेस मिलनी बाकी है...

इरादों के जहाँ में तो कब से सजी हैं झाँकियाँ,

कल्पना के बागान में खिली हैं फूलों की क्यारियाँ।

सोचा तो है गगन चूम के आना है,

शुरुआत अभी बाकी है...

मन का आंगन है अगन से झुलसा,

मांगे दर दर प्रेरणा की वर्षा,

सेंक लिया है बदन धूप में, 

हाथ जलना अभी बाकी है...

है शायद ये यौवन का तकाज़ा,

कि तन विह्वल करे तमाशा,

उम्मीद बाँध तो बहुत रखी हैं,

साकार होना बाकी है...

या शायद है मानव प्रवृत्ति,

दुनिया देखे सदा अघटित कल की,

सत्य तो सत्य, हो चुका, या रहा है,

अनिश्चित कल आना बाकी है।

माँ, निकल पड़ने दो पिंजरे से,

ताकती रहना आसमां दूर के,

सांझ ज़रूर है क्षितिज पे छायी,                        

पर रात अभी बाकी है…

Qt Pi: Teaser

This is it: I have successfully completed shooting my first ever serious work of film with a bunch of enterprising and collaborative friends. We shot the roughly 15 minute long film over a 2-day shoot, dodging exam preparations, family engagements and that insufferable urge to sleep all day long. What remains is the post production (editing+dubbing), which I shall be undertaking once my pre board examinations are through (i.e., after 16th of January, 2013). Till then, a very misleading blooper teaser of the film is all I can give to you.
Hope my non-existent readers will appreciate it!

On Talaash and the marriage of natural and paranormal

SPOILER ALERT: It is needless to, but I feel myself bound to remind the humble reader not to expect any form of apology from the writer in the circumstance that their suspense regarding the titular film is ruined by the write-up that follows.

I have liked to call myself an agnostic for quite a while now; my religious inclinations have only ebbed as I’ve moved away from the zero point of my conception. Consequently, then, my faith in a ‘paranormal’ realm has also declined in its resolution. I have found reason and belief in the supernatural to be antithetical stances. I do not see how one can prevail with amity alongside the other.

It is always difficult for me to dissociate in all entirety the gist of an artwork from the way the artist executes it, in whatever form of entertainment or art it be. For those who argue that there isn’t much (or any) difference between the two, I would like to draw their attention to the entire body of work of Quentin Tarantino. None of his films (barring Jackie Brown and Inglourious Basterds) have ever had the story as the centrepiece: it is, of course, an important feature but not the most important characteristic. Reservoir Dogs had a sparkling script as its USP; Pulp Fiction had its snappy, gold-wrought dialogues and path-breaking editing and Kill Bill had plain badassery working wonders for it.

Bottomline being that it is never an easy task to dissect a film solely on the basis of one of the two: content or execution. Talaash, a film that was marketed as a dark, neo-noir police procedural, presented a similar problem to me, not as a scrutinizing critic but as an average popcorn moviegoer.

Before trudging the path of criticism, I shall set the definitions of two terms I will be liberal in the use of in the paragraphs that follow, more for the purpose of self-reference than anything else:

1.       par·a·nor·mal/ˌparəˈnôrməl/

Adjective: Denoting events or phenomena such as telekinesis or clairvoyance that are beyond the scope of normal scientific understanding.

2.       su·per·nat·u·ral/ˌso͞opərˈnaCH(ə)rəl/

Adjective: (of a manifestation or event) Attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature.

It is evident from these definitions that paranormal or supernatural activity is that which is inexplicable by the scientific resources of the day. What is not very evident, and must hence be brought to the fore, is the fact that supernatural occurrences are said to function even beyond the ‘laws of nature’. Now, the difference between something that is outside the realm of present scientific body of knowledge and the very laws of nature is that the latter bracket is inclusive of everything. By everything I mean everything: known or unknown, discovered or undiscovered, within the reach of science or without. 

Science is ever-changing, or as I like to put it, ever-growing. Every passing day sees science exceed itself, resulting in a knowledge bank of humanity that never shies away from addition, subtraction or correction. The beauty of a scientific hypothesis is that it is only considered true unless proven false. The laws of nature, however, have existed and will exist for each and every one of us, whether we know of them or not. Mankind’s knowledge of nature does not have any effect on its laws. Hence, when someone claims to have experienced a supernatural phenomenon, they are implying that the very laws of nature have been breached. Not only is it unexplainable by the current yardstick of science, it transcends the very nature of our being, our universe. This claim is one which I find very hard to stomach as a logical human being.

Returning to my original point (the difficulty of judging execution and content exclusively), Aamir Khan-starrer Talaash comes across as a perfect example of the dilemma. It deals with the clever machinations of a conspiring departed soul who exacts revenge from her perpetrators by getting them killed one by one. On her path to vengeance, she encounters a mortal anguished by a personal tragedy and, being the golden hearted spirit that she is, helps him come out of its clutches to live a normal, consummate life.

My biggest problem with the film is that it takes itself very seriously; it actually aims to pose pertinent questions regarding the potency of supernatural phenomenon such as communication with dead souls through séances, vagrant departed souls being able to assume humaniform and so on. It assumes the afterworld to be a very palpable and communicable state of being. It talks of it as a place existing within the ambit of the laws of nature, in fact functioning under a very steadfast set of rules of its own. It does to afterlife what Inception did to the world of our dreams. It defines, or tries to define the particulars of afterlife.

If it had been marketed not as an intense police procedural but as a supernatural thriller, I would have enjoyed it much more. I would rather be shorn of a contrived ‘twist’ ending instead of feeling cheated by the promotional tactics employed by the producers of the film.

Having said that, I found the ‘execution’ of the film very mature and deftly handled. All the scenes were technically impeccable; some sequences were masterfully choreographed and enacted. Nawazuddin Siddique’s character (of Kahaani and Gangs of Wasseypur fame) endeared me the most, and his story arc was gripping and deserving of a short film of its own. Till the last moment, I had hopes high for a Scooby Doo-esque climax, where all the supernatural elements in the story turn out to be red herrings, revealed to be mere cheap devices in the villain’s grand plot to subvert the situation to his benefit. Again, it is possible that my own expectations with the film worked against me, but these expectations weren’t ungrounded after all. They were as a result of a clever publicity tactic to make the film appear to be a grim detective thriller while it was something else completely.

Demand attention it will.

To put it in a nutshell, Talaash is a strictly good film. It will keep the viewers on the edge of their seats, demand their rapt attention, grow on them even hours after they’ve left the dimmed cinema hall for good. It will invite passionate discussions, arguments, and verbal squabbles from one and all. It will occupy college canteen chit-chat, industry buzz, kitty party banter and facebook dissection, all because it is audacious enough to merge the natural and supernatural, almost making the two appear seamless.

I will conclude with Arthur C. Clarke’s timeless words:

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”