Wednesday, 23 September 2015

Sounds of the inner soul

So many problems, so many questions
I get confused trying to figure out
Where lies life’s complexities
And how to untie the tangled knot

I don’t find answers, I have no solutions
I am only a silent spectator
Who watches the drama
As the climax of life’s play unfolds

I question myself who am I?
Am I the one who is running away from life?
Or am I the one who is trapped
In the ugly complexities of life

Why am I questioning my identity?
Did God send me to this earth
To bear the tyrannies of life?
To surrender to the sufferings?

 May be it’s the call of life
May it’s an opportunity to rediscover
To fight the inner demons
And find a new meaning of life

I will not be the silent spectator anymore
I will not search for any answers now
Instead I will enjoy the present
And find solace, that will calm the sounds of my inner soul

I will now don the hat of the protagonist
Play the new role with confidence
That will give a new meaning to my life






Monday, 21 September 2015

The so many silences of my life


I have formed a bond with silence. Everyday, I return home and surrender myself to it. The books remain where they were, the windows show their face only when I switch on the lights. It’s only the gushing of water from the tap, the sound of the AC or the moving fan that interrupt the pin drop silence that prevails in my room. Well, there are more sounds that constantly break the slience- the sound of thoughts. After a tiresome day, when I sleep on the bed, the thoughts keep occupying my mind. They trespass the lines of emotions and keep me awake all night.

But it is this silence that takes me to its lap very easily when I have a disturbed mind. I forget all the worries for the time as I take a dive to a calm ocean where I float like a boat that has enough time to reach to the shore. Again, I wake up in silence and again a new day starts.

One day, the same silence came upto me. It didn’t say or do anything. It directly struck to my mind and said, “Hello, I have something to say.” I asked, “What?” It said, “Just be with me and you will know.” A minute later, a flow of thoughts start occupying my mind. I couldn’t help but take my pen and begin to write.
 

Thanks Silence for being in my life in so many forms.

Thursday, 17 September 2015

Tara- the cacophonies of life

Tara is an interesting tale of the gender discrimination that still prevails in the Indian society. What is the reason behind India still being a male dominated society? or why a male is still considered as the decision maker in a family? The play throws light on this subject. Directed by Arvind Gaur, Tara is a well-told story brought on stage by seven strong characters- Tara, Chandan, Roopa, Dan, Patel , Dr. Thakkar and Bharti. It brings out the cacophonies of life which we face in our everyday lives.


Tara and Chandan are twins, conjoined from birth, but that didn’t pose to be a hurdle for either of the two. With advanced medical technology, they were separated successfully.  Life’s bitter experiences on the other hand were waiting for the two as they were cursed with handicapped legs. Bharti, mother of Chandan and Tara has an unconditional love for the two, quite opposite to Mr. Patel, her selfish husband who only wanted his son to join business.

Caught in between the complexities of life is Tara, who fails to understand why there is such a difference in love and affection towards her in the family or is it because she is a girl? On one side, is her mother, Bharti who considers her the apple of her eye, on the other side is her father who is least concerned about her daughter’s future.

Tara has a dysfunctional lung in her body which she was unaware of. Only Bharti was aware of her critical condition. On the other hand, Bharti is undergoing an emotional distress that has made her vulnerable to mental disturbance. Dan decides to admit ailing Bharti in the hospital after seeing her rapid deterioration in health and makes it sure that none of his children are allowed to visit her without his consent.

Amidst much tension, Tara gets operated at the hospital. She is kept aloof of her mother’s critical condition. An ever inquisitive Tara returns home searching her mother. Both her father and Chandan try to pacify her by cracking jokes, but she doesn’t succumb to them.  She seeks the help of her brother to meet her mother, but even he denies for any help.

Tara is shocked to know that even her own brother was not by her side, when she decided to visit her ailing mother in the hospital. Chandan, on the other hand was constantly fighting with his inner demons that stopped him to stand beside her beloved sister, Tara. He failed to understand what was it that was stopping him from standing by his sister. Chandan was in a state of delirium, he could realize there must be something that was stopping his father from meeting his mother.

Chandan grows up to be a writer. Till date, he hasn’t been successful. He is always haunted by his past. One day he decides to write a story taking Dr. Thakkar as the main protagonist. While interviewing Dr. Thakkar, he comes to know that in one of his operations, he had been unfair when he was bribed by Mr. Dan (who happens to be Chandan’s father) to afford the male child with a better leg. Hence, the girl child, Tara was denied of this privilege.


Knowing this ugly truth of life Chandan commits suicide as he was not successful either in becoming a writer or a child who could take care of his family.

Monday, 14 September 2015

Lessons from an Artist

It’s Saturday, 9:30 p.m. I am taking the first sip of Slice, which I have just purchased from the nearby shop. I scan my eyes through Safdar Hashmi Marg near Shriram Centre after watching a wonderful play. The place is bustling with theatre enthusiasts – Singers, Writers and Actors. A group of youngsters entourage an old man in his early 60s as he tells them anecdotes of his life through an artist’s eye. Few metres away, is a group of men in their 50s sitting over a bench discussing literature over cups of tea. Sometimes I wonder why Mandi House is not renamed as an Artist’s Paradise?

I spot a scrawny guy in his 20s. Once he glares at me and the very next moment tilts down his head on the A3 sized white sheets clipped to his wooden board. He looks frail in a blue t-shirt and khaki trousers. The shoe lace of the right leg is untied. His hair is ruffled and his valise is kept in a precarious way over a stone tab. His right hand moves advertently over a board. He is sketching something. I appear benighted and don’t allow him to get an idea that I am his model of the human caricature which he is scribbling on his sheet of white paper.

Finishing my Slice, I get up, take the other way and reach to the place where the guy was sitting. I reach from behind to observe him. Getting a hint of my presence and in a state of embarrassment, he turns the page. I say, “It’s ok dude. Chill. Carry on.” I sit beside him and ask, “Seems you are an art student. Which college do you belong to?” “Jamia Islamia,” comes the reply. I curiously ask, “It’s already 9:40 p.m. won’t you return home?” After a brief pause of few seconds, he replies, “Assignment.” I wonder what assignment? He again replies, “I need to submit 250 sketches in a week as a part of our 1st semester”


                                                      Image source: williamchyr.com


“This means 30 sketches per day!,” I wonder. Before I could say anything, he further replies, “I am late today. Usually I arrive here at 5:30 in the evening. Today, I came at 8:00, so I have to do a late night sitting.”
I am completely taken aback by the kid’s dedication towards his craft. No, it is not only a craft to him but a passion that drives him as an artist, because when I ask him about his future plans he says, “Artist banna hai (I want to be an artist).”

As a teenager, I too had dreams to be an artist but it was my family that didn’t support the idea to earn a living by being an artist. They were quite true to an extent because earning a living as a painter is really difficult in the Indian market.

So, what did I learn from that young artist?

You should pursue dreams no matter what the result is. The young guy is quite aware about the bleak future of artists, but still carries on his struggle with his painting.


Saturday, 12 September 2015

Nukkad Natak and Tamasha with Bollywood Tadka


Bollywood and Indians, they are inseparable. Indian films have always been a reflection of the society we live in. Be it the caste reservation system, corruption at the government offices or the other day to day affairs of life, the 70MM screen over the last few years has portrayed situations and incidences of life through songs and interesting story telling.
 

This Saturday, I had the profound pleasure of watching a street play (Nukkad Natak) by a bunch of youngsters from the Ashmita Theatre Group at the Shriram Centre, Mandi House. They performed  11 plays with interesting dialogues and ended each one of them with a song from a Bollywood movie.

Friday, 11 September 2015

Skip, Hop N Elope

A thunder strikes and it begins to rain. She is scared and hides her face in my chest. Both of us are drenched in rain. I can feel her breath as she draws her closer to mine. I embrace her tightly in my arms and kiss her forehead. The thunder strikes again. As drops of water forms all over her face, she looks more beautiful than ever. I go on watching her and appreciate her flawless beauty. Her shy face is like that freshly bloomed flower whose petals shine brighter as the first rays of dawn fall on it.

I firmly hold her head with my hands and kiss her lips. The rain turns into a violent storm. Somewhere, I could hear the sound of lighting. An eerie of silence prevails all over. I realize that there is nobody, but only me and my love. Perhaps, our bond is so strong that it cannot separate us in rain or hailstorm.





I weep the next moment. She is not with me anymore. It was just a moment which I fantasized. I wish I could SKIP, HOP N ELOPE to from the present. 

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

It’s now or never

Writing is forever
It’s now or never

Write whenever you are free
Because it’s the words
That have the beauty

Stories or Poems
Whether good or bad
Make sure that you have a writing pad

To remember the times of applaud
To register the moments of despair
Which you won’t get back ever
But will cherish life’s lessons forever

Pen, Pencil and Paper
Are the amours of a writer
I always find solace
Between words and letters

 Whenever I sit down
And scribble on a paper
Something or the other comes out
The sheer pleasure of writing never seems to get over