Sunday, April 20, 2008


Put me to exile
through shards of glass
thin as crispy frost

My dream I live you say
and I break with the new dawn
joyless in your green eyes

I lie here on a white bed sheet gone yellow, in a blue room turned furnace. As much as I love Film school, which to the say the least is way too much, I can’t stop missing the life I bid goodbye to. I love the cinematic masterpieces I watch, the goose bumps on my thighs when the film camera rolls and the frames flicker to a rhythm only I can hear, the books I would have never read, the talented peers who have so much to share and teach, and the drunken weekend trips to undiscovered places.

And so I don’t wish to sound arrogant and elitist, but I often imagine the little and big things that would have occupied me, in my parallel life, where I would have never decided to go to Film school.

I can see myself in April, working in Mumbai, living with Shelly, cursing the traffic, drinking free coffee, dancing away the weekend. But more than any of this, I would have seen myself working for a future I always imagined for myself. I was happiest when I was working during the last one and a half years. I remember the thrill of having landed the next job with a better salary. The music in the iPod had changed and I sang along to Mika, loudly at the Munirka traffic light. Even my parents were beginning to be proud of me and the pay cheques I was earning at twenty. It was nice being a writer.

But at the same time, the fact that I wasn’t in Film school was eating me up bit by bit, and it is unbelievable that I am infact a Direction student. But as I lie here in my room, bunking my favourite evening screening, I cannot stop mourning the loss of my friends, a million cups of iced tea, cooking Sunday lunch, swaying to the whims of another DJ, driving through the rain on a green July afternoon and waking up in the middle of the night to his calls.

If only I had escaped a miserable life, then such blasphemous thoughts wouldn’t have occurred. I mean what the hell, I am living my dream at twenty-two. But I had to choose between heaven and heaven, and no matter what choice I made, I would have missed on the other.

And now I am devoid of all inspiration, so I can’t write. I just wish I can fuckin’ write again! How the fuck will I make films without a goddamn script. Not one word in the last three months. Arggggggh!

I know it is just a phase, and it will pass, till then I listen to Toad the Wet Sprocket.