Imagination is our milk

 

A farmer needs a cow for milk. The milk is the fruit of the cow.

We as Artists need to know this very clearly that “Imagination” is the service that we offer.

“Imagination” to us is what “Milk” is to the cow.

People hire us for our ability to imagine things.

They don’t hire us because we know how to operate fancy equipment or the latest modern gadgets.

They hire us for our imagination.

Anyone can buy a set of crayons to draw pictures.

But would they have the imagination that would make those pictures pretty?

No I don’t think so.

Not everyone has that sort of an imagination.

Imagination is not a product, it’s a skill, and it’s a talent.

And we as artists need to sharpen our ability to imagine things.

How did the world’s longest love story end?

There was only silence.

A lot of silence for a really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

long time.

The kind of nauseating silence that you can feel when you fart yourself in a crowded metro train.

Especially after a weekend spent feasting on the delicious “Rajma Chawal” that only your mother can cook.

Sometimes even “Mutton Biryani” has the same effect.

A bit unusual for an argument though isn’t it?

Well “life is a big fart” that  is what the two thought at the end of it.

As usual there was a boy and there was a girl.

None of them had spoken to each other for a

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

really

long time.

But their fingers were greasy with lies that they were typing to each other.

Like a trigger of a UZI, the backspace button on their keyboards was their unknown assassin.

Killing hope and other silly motives with the push of a button.

They fired at each other with an uninformed accuracy.

Each time laying a brick of indifference between them.

It grew and grew.

Slowly the black wall was nearing completion.

Only words could save them now.

Words of courage.

Words of honesty.

Words of acceptance.

But in this desert of silence, the snake of their egos filled every hour.

No one, out of the two wanted to bow down to the other.

Yet secretly both of them wished

to forgive,

to be forgiven,

to unite

and

to make merry.

Waking up one day after watching two lovers kiss under the beautiful sunrise of a napalm sky on his big screen TV, he decided to save their friendship from stumbling down into the pit of darkness.

And he started typing a love letter that sounded like a poem.

But before his finger could press the send button, the arm of the “Control Z” button on his keyboard grabbed the umbilical cord of a tiny thread of an old lingering pain and pulled it right in front of the center of his third eye.

He could have resisted but he gave in to the delicious ecstasy of the bitter coldness that unusual traumatic experiences bring to the heart after a long period of tolerance.

And so did she.

Her mobile phone text editor did not have an “Undo Button” either.

The damage was done.

It was too late now.

Finally, the silence was broken with the sound of his shattering heart.

Their misunderstandings feasted on his salty palms

“They could have lived happily ever after”

and maybe they did…

Neap

Art is this space in our society where one can behave like a child. In this society we have created rules to help us survive physically as a group. But because of its limitations we lose the child in us. In our quest to survive physically our psychological self dies a slow death. We become adults and that urge to live freely, like we lived in our childhood days, gets suppressed. Art and other unexplored areas offer us that opportunity to become a child again. A place where you can make mistakes and practice full playfulness. Look at a two-year old playing around you and learn from them. They will teach you how to truly enjoy and participate in the creation of art. They know no boundaries and hence experience freedom that some of us will seldom re-experience again. Please practice some form of art. Otherwise you’re missing life’s real purpose. Or at least be in the presence of real art. Art that has not been created to be sold to you but that has been created out of playful love-making.

THE GIRL WITH 14 BACKSPACE BUTTONS ON HER KEYBOARD

Day by day her appetite was growing.

She first ate the food around her, then the tables, then the chairs, the walls, the sofa set, the TV, the fridge, the plants, the books, the motorcycles, the ex-boyfriends, the neighbors fucking pet, all the choking compliments, all the frandsheep requests, the ogling eyes of the bystanders, all the arguments, all her bad memories, all her ugly Facebook photographs, all her calories, all the Honey-Singh songs, all the politicians and the chat shows, all the Ekta Kapur TV serials, …..

Then one day she realized that there was nothing more left for her to eat anymore.

Tired and lonely from the jaw-breaking work, she cuddled herself and slept like a baby.

Like Snow-white she slept for a very very long time but unlike Snow-white she had turned blue from eating all that junk.

A merciful spider thought she was dead and spun a blanket of cobweb to save her from the cold.

A hundred Mondays passed.

Everybody forgot about her.

On a spring morning she woke up and had her cobweb cocoon for breakfast. Like a butterfly she had magically grown jet propellers that looked like wings. She flew across the seven seas. She flew to the moon and back. She made some friends in Pluto, Egypt and Cairo. Then she made few more friends in Mars, Neptune, Rishikesh and Alaska.  She also did a Skype call with her friends in Andromeda. There were others like her, with superpowers but sad faces. They all told her the same thing “with great powers comes great responsibility” and that all these years with all their superpowers all of them had failed to do one particular thing. These thoughts filled her mind as she ascended from Jupiter to Lajpat Nagar. She could not forget what her friends had told her that day. She decided that she would become more courageous. That she would be the magic and not wait for the magic. That she would regret the things that she did than things that she did not. She quickly took her keyboard and ate all the “14 backspace buttons”. She promised herself that she will write a short story every day. She will become the inspiration behind other people’s work. With her writing she would eat up all the “ignorance is bliss crap” in the world. And then she lived happily every after.

You know what’s the biggest secret ?

“Nobody has a clue about what they are doing. They are just doing stuff because there is a lot of pressure from the outside. But on the inside everybody is lost. Everybody is clueless. Just take a moment and see for yourself. You think you are in control. But you are not” said Stanely as he smiled at the surprise in her eyes. Hiding her surprise inside an expression of unfriendliness Kritika questioned him back “are you high mister?” Stanley took off his headphone and asked her “I am sorry, what did you say?”But before she could reply back the announcer announced that in a few moments the gates to the Rajiv Chowk metro station will open. Stanley said excuse me and left. To hide her disappointment Kritika looked at her watch. The time was 9:30 AM. She whispered to herself “Fuck its 9:30, and I don’t know what excuse should I give to my boss this time for being so late , Fuck” . A little boy’s shocking gaze was reading her up. He whispered a complaint in his mother’s ear. The mother asked to pay no attention to such uncultured people. In order to look busy and to cover up her awkward outburst of anger she quickly pulled up a pair of headphones and played some music. The music soothed her chaos. Kritika smiled while humming a melody and then said to herself “Forget it ! You know why do we have this ability to forget ? That’s right ! Cause if you remembered everything then nothing would be new. Cause its our ability to forget that makes us tolerant. Cause pain is inevitable but its nonetheless also forgettable”. These words just spilled out of her mouth and sprayed Kabir’s mind with splendor. Kabir was sitting nearby her and was completely mesmerized. He had never thought that his ugly mug could afford a girl like that to speak to him so profoundly. Kabir smiled at her with the smile of the tramp from the Chaplin film “City lights”. Kritika however realized that her station was near. She paved her way out through a wall full of Kabir like lookalikes. The announcer announced “Please Mind The Gap”

Look Alikes

So this is my ongoing investigative and observational account of some stuff that peculiarly depends on my wired brain synapses. I don’t know why it happens but it does. So I might as well keep a note about it in the hope that some people may find it useful someday. May be some scientists. You really don’t have to agree with me though.

 

Julie Delpy and Lindsay Duncan

 

Aditi Rao Hydari and Meenakshi Seshadri

 

Bruce Greenwood and Tom Skerritt

 

Clarke Gable and George Clooney

 

Robert Redford and Brad Pit

 

Paul Newman and Matthew McConaughey

 

 

 

Everything that makes sound is a musical instrument

If you call yourself a musician then you should be able to take anything that makes a sound and then make music with it. Just like our forefathers did it with sheep gut and wood (Oudh, Tabla) or like the grand daddies of hip hop did it with Vinyl records and Vinyl record players or like our big brothers a few decades back did it using sounds from a computer. So just look for stuff near you that make sound and use it to create music. And don’t just stick to musical instruments. Everything that makes a sound is a musical instrument. Like words, if you can make music using words then make it and they should call you a poet. A rapper is a poet too. He makes music using words but he focuses more on the rhythm rather than the pitch. A singer focuses on the pitch. But that’s all you need Variation in Pitch and Variation in Rhythm and Voila you have music. The same goes for film editors. You play with the duration (long take or short take) and size of a shot (LS, MS, CU and or also the colour of the shot) and Voilà you have visual music. So keep at it. Its music. Just  fuck all the rules and just have a ball. Do whatever satisfies you and only you. No audience no producer no mom no dad no brother no sister only fucking you. That’s all you want and the rest of them will or should eventually like you for your style. If they don’t then don’t worry they don’t deserve it. Your pie is for yourself to cook and eat. If anybody wants a share feel free to give it to them but don’t make it just to please them. Please yourself first. If you don’t like it then it doesn’t matter if the whole world likes it. Just like the old cave man made noise because he was getting bored. So he banged and banged and banged the deer bone on the tree log with all his heart and soul. Till the time he started enjoying it. Then the others came and called it music. So go on bang something.

mood

mood – to recreate mood first submerge yourself in it. Then use your knowledge of the medium you are comfortable with to write it.

example,

If you want  to write a sad song then go and get hurt and remember all the sad stuff that has happened in your life. Listen to all the sad songs that you like.  Watch all the sad paintings. Read all the sad stories. Do everything and anything to reach that deep sadness residing inside of you. Then let it grow. Let it become big like a hot air balloon until it burst open your rib cage. But hold it back with all your might. Do not let it go. Hold it as if it’s the arm of your lover falling off a cliff. Hold it and place it in the deepest corner of your body and let it burn your insides. Then one day you will lose. It will disobey you. No matter what you do it will defeat you and that day you will win. On that day you go grab a pen or a pencil or a rock and write it down. Record it before you come to your senses.