Saturday, September 27, 2008


Once there was a girl…Who went to the beach.. went for a twirl…On the way back…to her shack...She chanced upon… a bead…..To her fading passion it seemed to give a lead…

Looking to her left she saw the distant ship….And immediately a wish arose from her lip…She wanted to head to her land. Where she could have the world in her hand … And now…the rest will be told when you accept the apologies that have been foretold.

- Sheleja Kapoor


Lelaina:: I just don't understand why things just can't go back to normal at the end of the half hour like on the Brady Bunch or something.
Troy:: Well, 'cause Mr. Brady died of AIDS. Things don't turn out like that.
Lelaina:: I was really gonna be something by the age of 23.
Troy:: Honey, the only thing you have to be by the age of 23 is yourself.
Lelaina:: I don't know who that is anymore.
Troy:: I do. And we all love her. I love her. She breaks my heart again and again but I love her.

Monday, September 22, 2008


So, I forgot this black page has now floated among the web of the web for two years now, and we already did my birthday girl post, so let’s evolve beyond human needs and recognize the next step in the virtual and infact recognize a blog birthday, despite the fact that this concept is just tearing up my insides, for how absured is it anyway. But like Shelly said, we’ll all be living in the centre of the earth and spending all our money on ourselves and not the children, just like the Japanese (and they are the most advanced, we all agree), so why not treat techie things like blogs with a little compassion.

Besides, something is wrong with mine. It is voluntarily advertising the existence of photobucket all over the damn place and I can’t get rid of it. Damn you hacker people, just çause the black hole didn’t suck us all because you guys dropped out of MIT to get laid, you put up some annoying photobucket stamps all over my people.

So, let’s humbly acknowledge the existence of my alter ego that hosts my writings, which are simply brilliant without recognition, but as I sit here with my chin resting on my knee, I let out a silent sigh and tell myself.

Ahh… the quality and content is not that great anymore.

Now I don’t want any Oh sweetie don’t be so hard on yourselfs. But it really isn’t the same anymore. I have to go way back in archives to find one piece of original prose or poetry. Damn this film school. It has sucked up my insides and put it in the purple bucket on the ground floor boys toilet. The consequeces are pretty grave, I am yet to come up with an idea for a script I have to submit in less than a week and not to forget, shoot it as my year end film (which I hope will not rot as an .avi file on my lappie like the previous three exercises I shot). Besides, this is my first ever film-film, so I am very very very enthusiastic yet pessimistic about it. Watching Scrubs is not of great help either. Need I go back to the Kieslowskis and Tarkosky’s?

Sometimes I wished I could just turn this thing into rant about how film school poisons, maims and kills every little ounce of you everyday. As opposed to the general perception, it isn’t a wild wild world, if you don’t get any you blame it for your lack of inspiration and when you get some, it’s a bigger mess. I went to an all girl’s journalism school, and now I am in an almost all boys film school, so I am in desperate need to buy The Second Sex and brush up on my gender notions but I don’t have Rs 695 and so I will have to just drag myself through the concept of Post Grad School and figure out the male species once again. It’s as if being in post grad means everybody’s biological clock is ticking and its now or never and so I prefer never.

So I think I have convincingly explained my lack for inspiration and decent activity on the blog. There is a new one I just started, wonder what fate is reserved for it. Let’s see what we have by next September, hopefully no Mc Cain, more Polar bears and ofcourse no Photobucket.

Saturday, September 06, 2008


She sat reading a story with the same name by a Japanese maverick. Yes the one who traps you with his whimsical fantasy tales about a plain clothed Oz and midnight bakeries. So did she make a silent wish on her birthday?

The years have had a sprinkling of confetti soaked in spilled beer and pretty play things, sometimes masquerading as boys. He sneaked up from behind to wrap a gift around her neck, telling the crowd more than they needed to know.

When he finally fell asleep in the light of the dawn, his warm breath on her shoulder and his white body sculpted from what could be golden velvet merging into hers, she sneaked a quick look at the lines of his face. Another wish came true with not the candles but the phosphorus lights going out, another door unlocked, another stolen kiss in the clandestine corners of a suspecting crowd, only to wake up and remember, why make love when you don’t love?

There is always a plot. A plot for every life, common to a few, divided into a few sub-plots and further on. Some excite and entice, seeking attention at the expense of the worthy. Some, deliberately forgotten to make believe never ending interpretations, suiting everyone’s perception. Characters exhibit shades, rather than humanity -- a chaotic blend of lazy curators, stealing the spotlight for they challenge the supposed intellect. And as for the plot of a life, devoid of any sub-plots, characters, climax, heroes, props and morals, what purpose must a pen and paper have, if not to chart a desolate course dictated by its whimsical overlord.
- Anki