Cockroach in Cocktail

My Documentary Showreel

2011-12-20T16:47:00.001-08:00

Modelling for Artists @ Newcastle Art Centre

2011-11-29T10:22:00.001-08:00

3 Years screening at The Lit & Phil

2011-11-13T02:22:00.000-08:00

The film '3 Years' was screened on Nov 5, 2011 at the The Literary and Philosophical Society, Newcastle upon Tyne followed by a presentation and Q & A on the same. The event was organized by The North East Screenwriters Group, Newcastle. Thanks to everybody who attended the event and shared their varied experiences, interpretations and opinions on the film. Thanks to the group, especially Keith who organised it, for giving me a chance express my views and the unconventional making of this film. Thanks to Tim, the cello musician friend from Northumberland street who helped me make this film with him. Thanks for everyone who made it a success. Cheers.

2011-10-18T07:24:00.000-07:00

3 Years @ Lit & Phil Society Newcastle

2011-10-18T02:27:00.000-07:00

North East Screen writers group organises a screening session for '3 years' @ Literary and Philosophical Society*, Newcastle on November 5th. In the session Tim & I will be talking briefly about the evolution of this film followed by a Q&A session with the viewers. Thanks for all your support.

* The Literary and Philosophical Society of Newcastle Upon Tyne, founded in 1793 as a "conversation club" by the Reverend William Turner and others – more than fifty years before the London Library (or the Lit & Phil as it is popularly known) is a historical library in Newcastle upon Tyne, England and the largest independent library outside London.

Ivan's Childhood

2011-10-17T03:14:00.000-07:00

Andrei Tarkovsky's - Ivan's Childhood

Medium: Ball Pen

He Belonged to the sea...

2011-10-11T05:04:00.001-07:00

He belonged to the sea

Medium: Acrylic/ Water paints

2011-10-08T06:09:00.000-07:00

Medium: Acrylic paint

ajnana-timirandhasya

jnananjana-salakaya

caksur unmilitam yena

tasmai sri-gurave namah

- Bhagvat Gita

I/Eye was darkened by the cataract of ignorance -

He/She painted ‘anajanam’ (medicine ink) in my eyes

Letting the light of knowledge enter my sight

Teacher, I bow to you…

I remember you Grandpa -

My first guru who wrote 'Hari Sri' on my tongue

Whether it is a tradition from yesterday, today or tomorrow, least bother, I believe that Vidyarambham is something that connects yourself to goodness of mankind. I respect the ideology of treating teacher and the supreme power as one and the same. In my memories I have my grandpa holding the fingers of toddlers writing hari sri. My Grandmom who suffered from Parkinson disease, for many years used to make us hold her shivering fingers tight to write Hari Sri on the day of Vidyarambham. Both of them were teachers by profession at Nadukkara School, Avoly. I guess, any tradition is good if it connects people breaking the barriers giving self respect and respect for others. I also remember grandpa traveling behind the scooter of a fish seller beside the fish basket, on an inactive 'Kerala Bandh' day morning to go to a temple for children who arrived for Vidyarambham. :) My childhood was a learning from him.

2011-10-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

My Paper Boat - In OneWayTheatre

2011-09-14T03:43:00.000-07:00

One way Theatre - A moving open theatre that runs on environment friendly solar power, picked up 'My Paper Boat' for screening at various venues across UK. The theatre travels in a van that works on 'waste cooking oil' and screen films at open spaces. Thanks to the team for selecting 'My Paper Boat'.

For more details on the film visit: My Paper Boat

3 Years

2011-09-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

Genre: Drama/ Live Action

Duration: 25.13 mins

A young man who lost his leg in an accident 3 years back, finally comes out his depression accepting his reality on the same day after 3 years and walks in search of that someone who was killed under his car. Whilst the real victim of the accident leads a different life making people smile. The victim and the culprit remains two sides of the coin connected by the destiny without their knowledge...

The film is made on true guerilla filmmaking means and methods without any written script. There is no artificial lighting, synthetic locations etc. The actors were the film crew itself and real people from the road. There was no panned budget for the film and it evolved from real situations.

*Thanks to all who unknowingly became co-actors, co-creators, co-producers of this film.

Camera : Arun Bose, Akhilesh Namath, Tanweer Ahmad, Muzammil Rahman, Drew Knight, Lana E Bowman, Peter Sarremets, Liam and Rosina

Cast: Tim Foxall, Arun Bose, Sue Dunne, Drew Knight, Lana E Bowman, Peter Sarremets and passerbys of Northumberland Street

Cello Artist: Tim Foxall

Concept and Creation: Arun Bose

The film was first screened for Tim at his house and he asked me, "I thought you were doing a documentary film about Cello. Didn't realise that I was doing a character in your story."

Life & Death

2011-08-13T07:30:00.001-07:00

Life,

Love you,

Live with you.

Death,

Love you,

Do take me with you,

Love.

_____

Sketch: Life & Death

Medium: pencil, ink, colour pencil

Life Art Session

2011-08-07T03:58:00.000-07:00

Life Art Sessions at Newcastle Art Centre

Model: Rachael

Medium: Pencil, Charcoal

Guerilla Film Art

2011-08-02T07:07:00.000-07:00

ONE PLEDGE ( TEN RULES ) FOR A PERFECTLY IMPERFECT PROCESS-LED COLLABORATIVE GUERILLA FILM ART

No ten rules, No pledge. BREAK the RULES. Be a free Guerilla.

No story, No script, No screenplay, No Storyboard. Films are not MADE, they EVOLVE. FLOW with it.

No producer, No investment. Don't SELL, do SHARE.

No cast, No crew. EXCHANGE roles/ MULTITASK. Be the cast and the crew, carrying the emotions of the character and the creator.

No genre, No duration. GENRE & DURATION of the film stay unknown. Non-fiction is fiction/ Fiction is non-fiction

No perfection. No plan. Be an IMPERFECTIONIST. PERFECTION is unreal. Be unplanned.

No targets. TARGET GROUP is not identified or defined.

No paid components. Available camera, trees for tripod, sunlight, public transportation, real people, real locations etc.

No professionals. Be a first timer/ one-timer/ part-timer/ full timer. Film is a passion, NOT a job.

No Strain, No Stress. ENJOY the process/ companionship

LOVE for ART.

3 Years

2011-07-28T05:25:00.001-07:00

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008)

2011-07-17T06:08:00.000-07:00

Made by Matt Harding and Melissa Nixon. Lyrics adapted from the poem 'Stream of Life' in Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore

Matt is a 34-year-old deadbeat from Connecticut who used to think that all he ever wanted to do in life was make and play videogames. Matt achieved this goal pretty early and enjoyed it for a while, but eventually realized there might be other stuff he was missing out on. In February of 2003, he quit his job in Brisbane, Australia and used the money he'd saved to wander around Asia until it ran out. He made this site so he could keep his family and friends updated about where he is. A few months into his trip, a travel buddy gave Matt an idea. They were standing around taking pictures in Hanoi, and his friend said "Hey, why don't you stand over there and do that dance. I'll record it." He was referring to a particular dance Matt does. It's actually the only dance Matt does. He does it badly. Anyway, this turned out to be a very good idea. A couple years later, someone found the video online and passed it to someone else, who passed it to someone else, and so on. Now Matt is quasi-famous as "That guy who dances on the internet. No, not that guy. The other one. No, not him either. I'll send you the link. It's funny." The response to the first video brought Matt to the attention of the nice people at Stride gum. They asked Matt if he'd be interested in taking another trip around the world to make a new video. Matt asked if they'd be paying for it. They said yes. Matt thought this sounded like another very good idea. In 2006, Matt took a 6 month trip through 39 countries on all 7 continents. In that time, he danced a great deal. The second video made Matt even more quasi-famous. In fact, for a brief period in July, he was semi-famous. Read More

Wilson Periera

2011-07-11T05:08:00.000-07:00

A beautiful animation film by Dhaneesh, dubbed by Mohanlal in Malayalam.

The Old Code @ D'Oscar Film Fest

2011-07-10T03:04:00.000-07:00

The Old Code will be screened at D'Oscar FIlm Fest at The Queen's Hall Art Centre, Hexham on 18th July, Monday. Congratz to everyone at Skimstone... Hatzzz offf to u guys ....... really, Hatzzz off

With Tim - A journey in search of a story

2011-06-26T01:43:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday I went to Hexham to meet a friend who I met in Northumberland Street, Tim – an old man probably of my eldest uncle’s age. He survives on the money gained by street basking, making music with his Cello. I makes film with the tip money I earn by serving in a restaurant. Can there be a better collaboration? I went to his house in Hexham, the nearby woods, a country church on a hill top and a graveyard - in search of a story. Walking through the woods with wild rabbits and birds quietly moving all around was a thrilling experience. Finally it is happening, I am making a film with Tim and I am super excited about it.

A few weeks back a friend asked me what would I call my film style and I quickly replied -‘IMPERFECTION’. Its true. I have made all my short films with an imperfection. I would call them perfect only when those who view, make them perfect in their minds with their own corrections. I admire that mental communication, they are definitely my intelligent partners. So far, I've never written a script for any of my films except for the very first short film ‘My Mirror’. I never had anyone who has prior experience, for both the cast and the crew. I can confidently say that every single person who involved with me in filmmaking is a first timer or just one timer. They are not perfect, I am not perfect and our film is - hence - in simple words imperfect.

I’m on my way to make my next Imperfect film, with Tim. I've all liberty to be excited about it. :)

Screening: After Getting a Job

2011-06-21T07:36:00.001-07:00

After Getting a Job, was screened at Northern Film and Media, Studio 3 on June 8^th as part of Concept Film Night by Institute of Digital Innovations by Teeside University. Special Thanks to Peter, Manoj, Tanweer, Dewanigi, Naveen, Jijo Chettan, Allison and others in the cast and crew who made this film possible. It was nice talking to the audience on the film and the process by which it was made – How the film was evolved from the silly dreams we all have as Immigrant students in the UK. The reason for keeping names of the characters of this film as the real names of actors – Arun, Tanweer, Manoj and Dewanigi – was deliberate in the objective of bridging a link between the fact and fiction. A lot of immigrant students in UK did share their own silly little dreams ‘After Getting a Job’ before the making of this film and after seeing it. Three things that I admired about the Concept Film Night this time was watching some real good movies, sharing thoughts with their directors as well as audience and some interesting remarks I heard about 'After Getting a Job' from young people who attended the event as part of the community group Humanah. During the break the young people shared with me their dreams ‘After Getting a Job.’

The film talks about the dreams of four immigrant Indian students in the UK, that they want to realise 'After Getting a Job'. As they decides to make a film about their situation they also realises that they can fulfil it only 'After Getting a Job.'

....now I am waiting to a buy a new camera to do high quality film ‘After Getting a Job’...

Value: 30 Silver Coins

2011-06-02T05:08:00.000-07:00

John 6:64

"Yet there are some of you who do not believe.” For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him.

…all on a sudden, a serene beam of morning light saw its way in through a tiny keyhole on top of the jail room bleaching his wide open eyes contributing him a meek moment of darkness yet again - for one last time - and then quietly punched a spark of unwanted hope of life in his quiet closed heart. It was clear that Jude could not sleep even a bit since the previous evening as the result of a long meeting with the jail warden. He became an inhabitant to that place many centuries ago as a middle-aged man and since then the time carefully sketched quite a lot rude art works on his forehead and his ever sinking skinny figure offering the status of old man. Lifetime imprisonment was the curse of destiny for his inhuman behaviour that resulted in the agony of millions of people for losing their only guiding star, while a different destiny, after very many years, seems to have decided to offer another fate for his changed mind. The warden’s words meant the same. The light that left them returned back to their lives as a miracle in just three days after his crime, and he who committed the crime was arrested and kept in jail for many centuries by curses. To be exact, 21 centuries passed for the world though he never felt the same.

He was more obedient to the air and environment of the jail and it was evident that the world outside its rock walls vanished from his mind without any hint. Or, in other words it can be identified as a choice he made for himself than living with all those curses and the pain of that wild sin he committed to his guru and friend, for some silver coins. Naturally, the moment he heard that the authorities decided to relieve him; an alarm sign rang so loud and clear cautioning him that he was then in the middle of an ocean where the waves behaved as uncountable thirsty tongues competing with each other to swallow him. He was always been free from any such illusion or illness like hope and ambition, but not anymore since the previous day.

Jude decided to follow the instructions of the beam of light and got ready much early and peacefully waited for the policeman to come and open the door. The one who came to perform that task was found least interested in his assigned duty. Yet he did it calmly. Jude followed him struggling with his skinny body to match the pace of his companion; while his mind went way back in time to those younger days he closely followed the guru of mankind preaching his vision and wisdom. While signing the documents in front of the warden his hands shivered. He realised that he even forgot his signature. Well, he never fancied that there could be a use of his signature like that anytime. The world outside is made of many such signatures agitating for ownerships, but not the world inside the four walls of the jail. Nature of the people is also like their signature, some straight, some bright, some harsh and some fit for trash. The policeman gave him the dress in which he walked in to the prison 21 centuries back. As it was left in some dark corner for that long time, it was shabby, torn and unfit. Yet he removed the prison uniform and wore the one of his promised freedom. The warden gave him a leather pouch with the 'famous money'- 30 silver coins. They seemed to talk something to each other. The very glimpse of it gave him immense pain than a gain. Yet he took it with a question and a promise at the same time,

“Can there be a corner in the world where they can be thrown and no one could search it back or remember it? If so....If this is the start, that is my destination.”

Finally the massive jail gate opened in front of his eyes.

“Jude”,

As he took his first step out of the jail, he heard a call from a very familiar friendly voice he once followed so religiously. How could he forget it? He was been hearing it in his every single dream for past many centuries while in the jail. He feared it. His eyes filled with tears and they rolled out in uneven proportions over his cheeks covered by the marks of his old age.

He saw Christ in his long hairs, long beard and smiling face. The guru was still young, the same way he was first seen centuries ago. He was silently standing outside the jail for that many as centuries Jude was inside, spreading his hands waiting for that moment. Jude heard his heartbeats load than ever before. He felt that it was going to burst any moment. But before that he longed to reach guru’s hands. He realised that his legs were numb, yet he dragged his body with his only force, will. All on a sudden it rained heavily, but the sun stood right above his head brighter than ever before. In fact, that was his state of mind too. Jude struggled on the floor to reach the Lord. He found his shabby over coat heavy. So he tore it and threw it away. He fell naked like a baby. The only thing left in his hand was the leather pouch and the coins. He realised that he wouldn't be alive to reach that corner of the world he wanted to go and throw it. So he threw it there itself. Jude found his new destination as the hands of Christ and dragged his body on the floor towards him.

The moment he threw the pouch away, from somewhere, a stone came and hit his forehead. It was just one first, but in a few seconds there were many. A rain of stones soon covered his body tearing his skin. The blood gushed out and dissolved in cold rainwater. Sun faded behind a massive dark cloud. Behind Christ he saw millions of angry people with sacks of stones. Judas calmly closed his eyes, took his last breath away from his destination, whispering one last prayer ‘Jesus Christ’.

Christ turned back and looked at the furious people holding stones in their hands with burning eyes. He shouted,

“Whom are you doing this for? Don’t you all know that I forgave him even before his crime? Still, for many centuries you kept the stones safe in your hands waiting for this moment. Shame on you… You betrayed me, you betrayed yourself.”

Christ lifted Jude’s body in his arms and wiped the blood with his cloth and rainwater.They vanished leaving the people down, while they remained busy throwing stones at each other fighting for 30 silver coins.

A Chimney Story

2011-05-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday lightning hit the chimney of our house causing shower of bricks from the building over a car parked right in front. My faltmate Muzammil's room that is right under the chimney has now got a hole in the roof with dust falling down from there. Thankfully there wasn't any other unhappy incidents. The fire fighters marked the whole area, used a crane to climb over the chimney to remove the loose bricks. We were surprised to see the two fire force vehicles, police cars and the insurance guys rushing to the spot. Every thing got back to shape in an hour's time, so quick and clear. Still struggling to believe that all this happened in our home.

Arranged Marriage

2011-04-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

Quite a good film :) Well what came to my mind was the title of a book - Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. No offence :P

Arranged Marriage from Nars Krishnamachari on Vimeo.

Vishu @ Rasa

2011-04-24T04:06:00.000-07:00

It’s been almost a year since I am working part-time at Rasa India restaurant at Quayside. Undeniably there was been quite a lot of learning experiences from the restaurant job by serving customers. There is a sense of pride in talking to the them as it is more an art of communication, a culture connection and fine food serving. Now it has become a routine of my daily life in Newcastle to invite whoever I meet for a meal at Rasa promising the taste of Kerala. Being a cultural ambassador is what probably thrills me the most. Well, there is definitely another intention too. I know nothing about cooking Kerala dishes to invite friends home for a good meal. My restaurant job helps in that way too. From intimate friends to my faculty staff at Northumbria University came to Rasa for dinner and its a pleasure to serve them.

Just remembering my favourite film character here. As many of you know my dearest female character in cinema is ‘Yesterday’ from African film ‘Yesterday’. Let me just talk about the male character that fascinated me the most. He is ‘Guido’ of ‘Life is Beautiful’. I guess Life is Beautiful is the film that I have seen maximum number of times since my college days. While in MCC, visitors to my room were not allowed to leave until they have a glimpse at this film. My Heber Hall friends know this fact pretty well.

Guido was always been ‘the personality’ who I wanted to become in real life. I’m not denying that my first choice was always been Chaplin of the 'The Kid' but Roberto Benigni seem to have an equal charm when he comes in front of the audience. More than any of those action heroes or charming Tom Cruises, Guido is still the first choice as a role model. He was a family man. When he was around everybody laughed and smiled. Those who hasn’t seen the film, I really don't want to explain about him but let you see the film yourself.

Now what is Guido’s connection to this post? Well, he was a waiter like me in real life. Ever since I have seen this film there is one favourite scene and dialogue that I kept sharing with friends. It’s about the first day of Guido’s work at his uncle Leo’s restaurant. Guido was a bit annoyed when he had to bow in front customers. He asks uncle, “How long I am supposed to bend?” Uncle explains, “Think about a sunflower. It can bow to the sun, but as you see them low it can very well straighten up too. You are serving but you are not a servant. Serving is the art practiced by the Supreme Being himself. God serves man but he is not a servant”

Last Sunday we celebrated the famous Kerala festival Vishu at Rasa. It was a memorable day in life as I had my studio friends Claire and Pete as well as good friend Indu too enjoying the traditional Vishu Sadya at Rasa. Pete also had his birthday celebration with his set of friends too. I felt so homely serving them. Quite an amazing time in the restaurant.

Now I realised one thing funny. All my favourite film characters had children :P whether it is Chaplin of 'The Kid', Guido of 'Life is Beautiful' or Yesterday of 'Yesterday'. I guess I want to become a crazy and funny dad. :P he he

Wine & Dine

2011-04-23T02:35:00.001-07:00

Certificate from British Council

2011-04-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

News in Skimstone website

Life Goes On

2011-04-16T06:25:00.000-07:00

Quite touched by this movie directed by Sangeeta Datta. A poetry of life. Life goes on...

If you fall, I... ?

2011-04-14T05:27:00.000-07:00

Lots ‘n’ lots of kisses,

Lost is nothing,

Look we see us,

Loads are desires,

Lets fight,

Love,

If you fall,

I… ?

Hear my lullaby,

Hidden in breath,

Caressing your cheek,

Kissing your neck,

Caring you tight,

Love,

If you fall,

I… ?

We needn’t look, listen, learn,

World’s will, wisdom and ways.

Wider the hands, so the horizon,

Wind, wishes and waves.

Waking up your lips,

Love,

If you fall,

I… ?

Many oceans away,

Mermaid, I see you stay,

Making a home,

My heart.

May I let you hear,

Love

If you fall,

I die.

Lots of Hugs.

Loads of kisses.

Kolapra - My Village

2011-04-10T04:05:00.000-07:00

Fort Kochi

2011-04-06T13:58:00.001-07:00

Tuci, Kanchipuram

2011-04-06T13:57:00.001-07:00

Orissa

2011-04-06T06:13:00.001-07:00

Sign language

2011-04-02T03:10:00.001-07:00

A Lovely Little film I saw in Shooting People. Can't be but share it. Dedicating it to someone who became pregnant yesterday :P Hugs Alterego

Cockroach in Cocktail

2011-03-30T11:06:00.000-07:00

http://cockroach-in-cocktail.blogspot.com/

Vaishaka Sandhye

2011-03-30T02:43:00.000-07:00

Is there a better depiction of common man and his dreams in Malayalam screen, I really doubt. Leaving all the intellectual masks if there is one sincere outlook towards the very commonness of a basic Malayali mind, he is or she is none other than the one who lives on the joys of their reality, love and companionship experienced from their partner and a life fighting with the gentle truths of life. I can confidently approve on this song and its visualisation as the mind of a true Malayali. A very sincere song sequence without any exaggeration to the possible reality of the protagonists of the film. Kudos to the makers who realised it. One million times I personally felt, well why can’t my life be like this - simple and quiet, close to anything and everything that pulls me keeps me to my reality and inner essence.

The Black Angel

2011-03-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

“The novel that you are reading now isn’t about me.” Her hot breath whispered in my ears. I closed the book and turned to the thirst of her lips and thrust of her breasts. Another cold night perished quietly in her arms drifting me away from the warmth of my angel who stood awake talking to herself in vain. The practicality and reality of wife (life) kept clashing and colliding on the walls of a world only we understood. She, the black angel, isn’t a seductress but definitely not like my mistress who pressed more stress. The times I used to spend long hours looking at my wife's eyes and called them deep as ocean has faded away. Now it is my painful known truth that they are in deed deeper and treacherous as an ocean. We live together, if togetherness is only about the money we shared and the smiles we wore on every single day for past many years.

The history of black angel was still a mystery yet her misery, in a week, became mine too. I haven’t seen her but kept learning about her and her daily life. Her baby has no father, but she is breast-feeding him without questioning about his origin. Among the four (or more) men who shared her skin on a cruel night would never fight with each other to take her back to their life for that child. None of them would claim for fatherhood. She knew that fact. Today what is important to her is that fatherless baby than anyone else in this world. No baby can be born without a father. That is the reality. But in her case such a reality stays out of its value. Being a mother at the age of 16 and roaming in the streets for survival is her destiny - if destiny is the definition of all such disasters that has no specific solution or future.

I found her and took her with me last week as I knew that she was in need of my hands. To be honest, I bought her from the street in spite of my wife’s disinterest. Being a woman I thought she would understand her and spend some time with her and her little one. Instead of that she looked at her for a few times and laughed so wild. ‘The black angel’ was her biggest question. “How can a bitch be an angel and that too BLACK angel? Have you heard of an angel who is black?” she questioned me, as I stood silent holding the angel in my arms. I mumbled to myself, “Please, Oh please stop it. She is listening.” Since her arrival, I have learnt to believe in the purity of woman in its true sense. I adopted her baby as mine. He has a charm that my own children who are away in boarding schools don’t have. His smile is so beautiful. It is not easy to get hold of him as the mother always keeps him so close to her warm chest. Her dreams are about him. He is the reason for her very existence today. In her words, “At one point of time I kept the poison tablets in my mouth. Before I could swallow them I vomited revealing that there is a fresh tiny life in me and I am not alone anymore. Why both had to happen at the same time, I really didn’t know! I saw both death and life in front of my eyes. They both looked like twins and I heard a baby’s cry in my womb. Someone kept hands on my head and ordered that he is not a devil’s child but mine.”

On one occasion I was drunk with a BEST buddy talking all nonsense. He took my mobile phone and browsed through all the pictures and started laughing like mad. Then he told me a theory called ‘The ear-ring theory’. He said, “I can understand a woman changing her ear rings when they are single. But why do they have to do it after marriage?” I didn’t understand a shit. He continued, “Look carefully. Your wife is definitely an attention seeker. Even after having you in her life and having four children, she kept showing up with weird earrings. Brother, now listen to the great ‘Theory of Ear-rings’. Earrings do force attention on face. Amidst all the other women I noticed her face only because of her earrings. I became mad for her face because of her earrings. I made love to your wife because of her earrings. Don’t trust earrings.” He fell down on the floor and I fell down in front of me. I just walked out from the pub. It wasn’t his mistake but I left it as my mistake and assumed it as the mistake of her earrings. Even that night I slept with a seductress, my wife.

The black angel must have felt lost without my company. I dreamt about her whole night and woke up late with heavy eyes. The coffee was cold and the newspaper looked much older than me. It was clear that my wife was away. I didn’t care about her for the first time in my life but grabbed that muddy second hand copy of ‘The Blank Angel’ into my hands. Definitely she had passed through many such hands before reaching me. I really didn’t know where I stopped the previous night but continued from the page that opened in front of my eyes. There she was, smiling at me with her innocence, charm and purity holding her baby close to her chest. I kissed her tight.

I whispered to myself, "Yea, this novel is not about you- my wife."

On the back cover there was an image of the writer of 'The Black Angel'. He had a different beard and moustache on the back cover of his previous novel. Well, he does that all the time.

Skimstone- Exhibition, Screening & Awards

2011-03-28T03:23:00.000-07:00

Doing

2011-03-28T02:20:00.000-07:00

Doing is Art

Done is Achievement

Done is not the end

Doing is what I meant.

Photo: A man fishing at a temple pond in Bhubaneswar

Acting Profile

2011-03-26T06:35:00.001-07:00

Being a celebrity actor is not the aim, but to be the part of a good film realising a character that probably suit me is definitely one of the aims. I made this profile to send it to a friend who asked me for stills for a character. Thought I will make it appealing for him, even if it may not serve his purpose. I used a few stills with different colour schemes to suit the mood and expression - like authoritative green, cool blue, brutal red, earthy brown, vintage grey etc.- as used effectively in cinema to create mood.

I did the first bit of acting in school Nirmala when a set of seniors didn't find a candidate to do an old farmer woman character. They found me beside their makeup room and forced me to do that character. I didn't have any dialogue to deliver but stay at one corner doing the action of harvesting paddy. Thus stayed on stage for five minutes covered with mud holding a sickle.

The second stage performance was for a comedy play at Arena multimedia during graduation days in Hyd. Ironically it was again a female character but as the central character Anarkali. In the climax of play I had to throw away the Anarkali outfit and show that I am a man who came as an actor for their play. I just had to be quite natural on stage being freaky and goofy and it was hilarious to make people laugh. It worked well. I remember my best friends then, Yamini and Dileep following me to the changing room laughing and making fun. I remember Yamini shouting "Please let me in, Just want to see Anarkali one more time before he changes". Crazy goofy days. But that wasn't the best remark I had for Anarkali. Almost four years later I went to Hyd for a visit. There were no familiar faces in Arena except for an old maid servant of Arena. She recognized me and the words came from her mouth surprised me a lot, "Anarkali Beta, Kaise ho". (Anarkali son, how r u?). She remembered me as Anarkali, not with my name. Felt so good and gave her a hug. The image given below is of that performance.If you look carefully the old woman who is standing behind my character in brown sari on the steps is her. I found this pic in an old CD and kept it carefully coz of that memory.

I have acted in many of my own short films starting from My Mirror. I did it mainly because cheap benefits like I need not be paying myself for a role, I enjoy doing it and that I am never bored of undergoing any number of retakes to improve. But direction and acting together is really a painful task. The worst is when I have to handle the camera myself too. Well, I feel things are getting better these days and I am trying the best not to fancy doing characters that doesn't suit me but discover new actors around.

Recently at skimstone my friend Chris Hall forced me into a funny character called Lord Mongomery Smithers as his character had a Chaplin shade and he knew very well that I'm a hardcore Chaplin addict. Thankfully it went on well and yesterday for the screening at Newcastle Art Centre, I received good remarks from viewers from North East.Not bad, they laughed for sure.

http://skimstone.org.uk/yac/the-old-code

I really don't know whether I would ever take acting as a career but sure to continue to do it once in a while when someone offer a good character. More than anything else I thoroughly enjoy the process of it. I love the acting workshops at Skimstone and at MCC. Also remember a good day at Marathi Theatre club Sudarshan Rang Manchan in Pune once trying to do theatre exercises with young professional actors there. My director friend Titty told me to stop acting after my first short film 'My Mirror'. After 2-3 years he told me that if I have had a little more height he would have taken me for acting. But interestingly today he msged me in FB that he will have a role for me in a film sometime in future.

If life is to surrender for something then I don't want to live at all. Life might not take me to any heights but it will definitely make me better in confidence as a common man. So let me just act and live the moment now :P

With mad Naranath and a mad writer

2011-03-22T06:32:00.000-07:00

Till today I have never heard a word from his mouth than his silent surreal deeds through which meanings are moulded. Peeping into his world is assuring that words are meaningless and language is at a lower level. Isn’t language a nasty tool forcing someone into a specific path murdering his ability for wider interpretations and innovations that signs and actions could have encouraged in man? It is said about film editing too. His actions speak louder than words. That looks like his philosophy.

He is a short dark man with lean body and no muscles. I am not sure whether black brown is his actual colour or not. He sleeps peacefully on the burning sand and hard rock as if the hot summer sun is a shade. Only the monsoons can give him a bath in the entire year. Those days he stays wet even for a week or more until the sunrays eventually suck the water drops to its collection for next monsoon. He eats like a beast when he is truly hungry unlike other human who are open to grab a feast at any hour of the day and chew betel leaves in between those feasts. He seems to compare the process of chewing the cud among all the specious. I heard that he once did the same with his Brahmin brother Agnihothri and the cow at his cowshed. He fishes for his own reflection in the temple pond when nobody is around. As he finally stands exhausted, the ripples too seems to stop their naughtiness revealing his image. He then smiles at his mindless-lifeless-hopeless lifelong companion showing his dirty teeth in the belief that he is still growing with his growing beard. That looks like his philosophy.

He weeps in happiness and laughs at sorrows. Ironically neither the happiness nor the sorrows are of him but of others. For that matter he hardly has any emotion or preconceived notion about anything. He never meditates to know the reason about his existence to himself or questions about his birth to his mother Panchami or breaks his head blaming his father Vararuchi. He always hesitated to accept his relation to all of them, as he actually had no reason to understand its meaning. Yet all his ten brothers and one sister knew its meaning and they all keep smiling at him with immense love whenever he appears in front of them. The only brother he can relate in its true sense is his last brother who died by birth, Vayillaakkunnilappan. The mouthless dead boy Vayillakunnilappan is the only one who talks to him and he does reply back in silence to all his silly questions. He too smiles - or rudely laughs - back to all the others fancying their dress, teeth, eyes or even their mouths stuffed with betel leaves. He seems to enjoy the way the green betel leaves turning red with the mix of lime, tobacco, arecanut and saliva. That looks like his philosophy.

He is not a dumb man though he keeps his silence in agitation to the words. There are a lot of wise men who heard him speak to himself or to just nothing on unpredicted occasions. Why I need to say just others, I myself have seen him doing it at various moments in our journey together. To be honest we never travelled with each other with such an intension. It’s written on my forehead that he is meant to be my co traveller for no reason. Today it’s written in this story too by the writer without any academic proof or argument about him or me. The story itself is the result of his escapism from that spiral staircase of arguments and proofs he is dealing with these days in his thesis on films. That looks like his philosophy.

Once the wise men heard him talking to goddess Kali of cremation ground. For some reason Kali was so impressed by some of his action. As he was trying to sneak out without a word she forcefully stopped him and told him that she cannot leave him without giving a blessing. He stood scratching his head for nearly seven hours. The impatient Kali was forced to stand quietly until he opened his mouth and said, “I need one day less in my life.” She was surprised. Shaking her head in a big ‘No, no’ mode she replied, “Sorry it's not possible by me. Ask for something else.” He didn’t have to think much at that moment, “Ok then give me one day extra to my life.” Kali didn’t know what to say, but she had no choice but to say no again, “Sorry son, boon for birth or death is not in my hands. Please ask for something else.” By then he was so irritated. He gave a nasty look at her as if she is such a waste and that she was unnecessarily trying to waste his precious time. Kali was adamant that he must not leave without taking one blessing from her. He stood looking up for the next two hours and then looked down smiling at his feet. He asked, “Mother, there is a little ailment on my left feet, can you shift it to my right feet.” On that moment Kali became confused. But from that moment he didn’t leave Kali until she actually gave him that blessing. With an ailment on his right leg he struggled to walk out of the cremation ground with a happy face. That looked like his philosophy.

As I keep climbing every single hill or mountain he joins me from nowhere. He smiles at my trekking costume and shoes. As I struggle to climb he too does the same alongside me pushing a huge rock with bare foot and bare hands. Naturally the smart I always reach the top faster than him. By the time I finish and relax with the water from Aquafina bottle or a cigarette he touch the top point with the massive rock dragged from the bottom of hill. As I throw the cigarette bud or empty bottle down from the hilltop, he too drops the rock with a wild laughter. As it rolls down faster and faster at each stage making loud noises through the surface of hill mocking back at the pain he took while pushing it up, he gets high with claps and laughs. That looks like his philosophy.

As always I have to say, “Naranath, you are MAD.” He then smiles with his dirty teeth.

“Well, I don’t know whether you are mad, Naranath” I always have to contradict with words. That was always been my philosophy.

I guess the writer also has no argument or proof to define our madness and analyse it like in his film theory and definitions. Today in his heart he is busy hugging her tight and travelling with her to her baby's grave. He started loving both. That looks like his new philosophy.

Pravasam

2011-03-16T08:37:00.000-07:00

Pravasam is actually a journey with the symbols of mother land in heart.

I designed this short film with the shots taken from my trip to Kerala & the poem was written during school days that has a little story of its own. I can share it with you some other time. :)

Life in the UK

2011-03-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

It has been a year and two months since I came to the UK. Yesterday, my flatmate Tanweer and I had a good discussion about what we learnt or achieved from our life abroad after I received an email from British Council. I can confidently say that the last two years in my life was the most productive and creative time with regard to the academic and professional front. Leaving that apart I would like to talk about my personal life that took a new turning point, which I realised only during my visit to Kerala this January.

The simple things that I kept ignoring in yesteryears that I managed to adopt as the needs of today’s life here in UK seems to push me forward to be more confident on nearly everything that I was been longing to do in life. You might find it silly but I can bet that almost 80% of my confidence generated from a newfound love for cooking. In future I can be a loser at a lot of other places and activities but I am sure I will stay an achiever in kitchen. The most relaxing time I spend after work or studies is in kitchen with stupid experiments on what could be a truly new tasty dish. It is like painting or making a film. Well, the dishes might not fancy everyone but at least a few could have a positive opinion about it. J It’s been true about my films too. So far I haven’t followed any recipe. It is like writing without proper grammar and spellings or filming without script. I remember a long fight on phone with a good friend from English literature background Susan Deborah on my immediate and important need for a new word ‘fourbile’ or probably ‘frible’ in English that can follow the sequence of ‘single, double and triple’. Naturally it is not practical but I love this experimental way and I don’t think I ever looked for any takers whether it is film or food for good. I will give you an example of an experimental dish from the kitchen that my sister liked a lot - a curry with ivy guard, mustard, aubergine and boiled eggs. Have you heard of this combination before!

In spite of my dad’s words, I never thought of exploring ‘cooking-as-a-need’ for years, though I had all possibility for that during my stay in Chennai. I thought it could be time killer and hence wasted money at restaurants. Now that notion has been proved wrong. I cooked for my mother on most of the days I spent at home. I enjoyed intruding into her territory that she cherished for many years. For the food and me there were some interesting remarks from family. The funniest was my uncle’s, who said that he now truly agree and support to my plan of a single life as I proudly proved to him that I can cook a good meal, enjoy it and wash my plates all alone.

Let me get into my second achievement. I guess I have learnt to live with people now. From that loner of Chennai who was cocooned inside his own room marking it his only world, he had grown to a 99% social being. I used to believe that I could never share a house with someone else. For that reason I lived in a single room in Chennai for almost four years. Like my notion on cooking it is proved wrong. I am terribly happy with my two flatmates here who are more like brothers. I guess I was more selfish and self-centred during my lone life and I feel better with this new change. It feels good, funny and freaky.

This time in Kerala I designed the most satisfactory film I ever did, my sister’s marriage video. I was not with her on her engagement. On that day while video chatting with her she asked me for a promise that I would stay with her throughout the day of her wedding. I gave her a little plan that I remain at her side shooting her marriage video so that no one calls me for any other task. It worked and she smiled at me all the time I stood with the camera in front of her. Today, my parents know only two of my films - My Paper Boat (because of the prize) and Aakkutty’s wedding video. I feel more addicted to Kerala and my family than ever before. I realise the need of happiness as a family, for the family and I need to get back home for my parents.

Today if I feel confident to create something new at kitchen and share with my flatmates, I am equally confident to do a film and share with audience. Art of cooking and life with my flatmates surely contributes to all the films I probably do in future. I got an email from British Council that they are sending a certificate for a letter I wrote for a competition conducted on ‘Life in the UK’. I shared only the academic and work life that the judges of the competition called highly commended. What I never mentioned was the other learning in personal life and social life that I will cherish for this lifetime as my confidence.

I just cooked something quick for breakfast. Would you like to try? - A mildly spicy omelette with desiccated coconut, tomato and tiny slices of chicken ham along with a few slices of bread and a pint of Apple & Raspberry Squash. Give it a try…

Oormayai

2011-03-08T07:57:00.000-08:00

On my visit to Kerala, I found this video I did ten years back as a project for my course in Multimedia. Like everybody else my interest in film started with the idea of doing a music video. As I didn't know how to handle a camera then, the visuals were created in animation softwares like Flash and 3D Studio Max. Also a foolish attempt to make a song by myself. Kindly ignore it as an amateur's attempt.

My only creative partner for this video was the pune of Arena Multimedia, Vinay. He used to stay back until late night as I was stuck to the computer to finish this work. Late night, as everybody leave, we used to record in the silence using pocket Walkman and the basic sound editing software Sound Forge. After finishing this video - truly my very first video ever – we both sat down watching it putting it in a loop for at least fifteen times. Being a Telugu guy, he didn’t understand not even a single word in the lyrics. Yet I remember how much he cared for my love for this project. We used to close the shutters of Arena and walk home late night talking all nonsense.

A journey home

2011-03-07T06:02:00.000-08:00

Voices of Victims

2011-03-06T05:45:00.000-08:00

While I entered the Clark’s Inn canteen for dinner, a woman of my mother’s age folded her hands with watery eyes and said ‘Thanks’ in colloquial Hindi. I had to struggle to make her understand that I came for that event only as a documentary videographer for a friend. Yet she continued, “Beta, the only thing I know is that you are doing something good. My son’s father is still alive with us.” Thankfully Kurup sir entered the room and she moved to him with the same words. I sat down watching at the struggle her husband had to put in to eat food.

I was in Delhi for two days in February with retired High Court Judge, Justice Narayana Kurup - who banned smoking at public places by law for the very first time - to videograph his speech at an anti-tobacco seminar at Deputy Speaker Hall of Constitution Club Delhi. It was an event titled Voice of Victims organized by two doctors from Tata Memorial Hospital in association with Salaam Bombay Foundation and Voluntary Health Association of India. The event saw cancer victims voicing their concerns against tobacco lobbies to the public, media and politicians.

More than anything else what fascinated me the most was the words of the wives of the male victims. They spoke boldly with their husbands who stood beside them covering their cancer-affected mouth, about their battle for survival. In two of my blogs I talked so passionately about the film 'Yesterday' and the African wife/mother of the same name as of the film who faced life with courage in spite of her illness of AIDs. Hearing each of them was like watching that film again and again; there are still more ‘Yesterdays’ around me that I am yet to discover. The woman who folded hands to me was one among them. There was so much of simplicity and courage that made each of them special. The men who cried standing beside them on the podium were real. Those women were real. I wasn’t seeing any cinema there. They didn’t generate any sympathy towards them, but hummed a new tone of life.

While travelling alone in the flight from Delhi to Chennai I had mixed feelings in my mind. There was immense excitement to see my best buddies from Chennai and to spend some lone nostalgic moments roaming in my most loved city to those good old corners that gave and took memories from me. It was great walking through the corridors of MCC with my twin-soul Swarna and having lunch with her, Deepu and Barath. Chennai changed but not the people. It was nostalgic to recollect the memories of Kanchipuram with Sunder who had a few tears when I left NFSC. He hasn’t changed either. As always, it was equally exciting to hear long intellectual words of Muthu sir and Mohanamma’s long chat about her two sons. I could make all of them smile the same way I used to. That was a success. While leaving I carried a wonderful photography book created by my good friends from NFSC, about the art form Sarikala Chhau. Later at home, I was glad to see my father seeing it with interest. Value of good work!

The next day I walked around searching for Hope Foundation at Medavakkam area to see my baby girl Joshna, but nobody in the locality knew the new location of the AIDs home. It showed the stigma common lot still carry for AIDs infected people. I remembered Joshna’s mother’s words about their struggle of relocation because of people’s behaviour.

I had to leave the search mid-way and return back for my bus to Kerala. What else I have had done.

After two days there was an exciting shoot on anti-tobacco campaign organised by Kurup sir, with the medium of traditional Kerala art form Kadhakali. The same day I had a very promising chat with actor Captain Raju who was so down-to-earth to voluntarily spend time helping me shoot Kathakali visuals.

Life’s journey… continues…

Saint

2011-03-06T02:33:00.000-08:00

A tiny dewdrop that lost its grip over the leaf slipped and splashed on the laps of raw land. In seconds, it was sucked in silently by the surface leaving hardly any trace of its existence. Detachment is as addictive as attachment. A journey that never started has no ends to achieve too. The hermit stood static confused both at the hell and the heaven with a heavy heart. Can there be a story about him for the world? Definitely no… He is none other than a coward living calmly in claustrophobia accepting his incapability to differentiate the barrier between the rights and the wrongs. The truth is that his phobia is towards dreams and decisions. The clouds came down and touched the land only in his dreams. Actually there was neither a cloud nor a decision to determine an opening to his caved mind. A cocoon called ‘character’ he cherished as his confidence crushed bleaching all the beauties that surrounded him as success. It can be defined as the thinking time or meditation. After a few days, intelligence knocked him down setting him mobile. A journey that commences has an end to achieve too, though it carries certain curves and uncertain cuts. Can there be a story about him for the world. Definitely yes… Forecast of future is worthless… Let him live in sainthood with open eyes and open heart. Attachment is as addictive as detachment…

2011-03-04T00:26:00.000-08:00

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

2011-01-03T05:16:00.000-08:00

In Marcia Landy’s words

‘Sergio Leone films, engaged moral concerns of neorealism on their dramatisation of protagonist who struggle to survive in societies that are hostile to change and to collective practices.’

Thanks to my Prof. Russ Hunter for introducing me to Spaghetti Western films. As I write this essay, I rediscover that kid in me enjoying the icons I liked in my childhood. May be I was more sincere then. According to Leone, he was making action packed fantasy stories about the truth about men of today in a stylistic, yet realistic way; discovering The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, all in one, in everyone. It was true about 'The Dollar Trilogy' / 'The Man with No Name' Trilogy.

What appealed me the most is that journey on a horseback as that 'nameless nobody' to an unknown dessert landscape and keep going to the unknown... as unknown... with the back ground music of Ennio Morricone or the silence... with no company... no commitments... no past... no future... I'm sure 'the man with no name' is an insane Sagittarian.

Christopher Frayling says,

‘The Man with No Name’ was a completely marginalised figure in connection to the social groups he encountered. He was always on a journey – a journey that beings nowhere and ends nowhere.

Smiles with Skimstones

2011-01-02T02:36:00.000-08:00

I just had the most memorable Christmas with my two families in Newcastle - with my flatmates Tanweer, Soma, Muzammil and our beloved hosts Claire & Peter. The highlight of the day was the traditional Christmas lunch by Claire an Pete and the special Yorkshire Christmas pudding on a flame of brandy. We sang a Christmas song before the pudding... :) Cheers...

The year 2010 was even memorable. Except for a few silly unnecessary hick-ups in my own life, this was probably the most exciting year with some amazing people around, an year dedicated to friendship & smiles.

Love you all...... Hugs...

Side by side

2011-01-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

I’m

Destiny’s child

Where parodies reside

Dreams are wild -

Will our wisdoms collide?

You’re

History’s pride

Where comedies coincide

Habits still hide –

Will our ways elide?

We’re

Warrior’s blade

Where tragedies trade

Whispers fade -

Will our wings slide?

Say inside,

Stay beside.

No divide,

Now world is wide.

A long to ride,

Along we glide,

Side by side,

Bide, my guide.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2010-12-31T07:21:00.000-08:00

Dear,

It's New Year.

Year,

To reach them, who need you near.

Near,

So close that you hear.

Hear,

All that they fear.

Fear,

That leave them in tear.

Tear,

They shed a lot, let's clear.

Clear,

Oh, Dear ?

Dear,

Feed them a pear,

Get them a gear,

It's New Year

I swear,

A Happy New Year.

Even today; Yesterday

2010-12-30T05:07:00.000-08:00

There are two essays in a row that I need to finish before heading back to India. I've finished with the first one that is on ‘widescreen cinema and close to reality ambience.’ It was so exciting to read about the systems like Cinerama, CinemaScope, VistaVision, Tod-AOO, Cinimiracle, Technirama etc that fascinated audience in 50s and 60s with screens much bigger than today’s. I really do miss watching a 3D film in Cinerama; probably the ultimate experience of living in visual space. In future, I'm keen on seeing a film in OMNIMAX too. My second essay is on ‘Spaghetti Western films of Sergio Leone’ concentrating on the ‘Dollor Triology’. Thanks to my professor, Russ Hunter, who introduced me to the genres of films other than the ones of belong to the great Neorealism movement in Italy. To be honest until this module by Mr.Russ, I never thought that there is a genuine need of studying the commercial genres of cinema too. Now I agree that I was wrong.

Well in this post I want to write about something else- my concept of woman icon in cinema and may be in my reality too. I have already written about it in another post previously. But today after seeing the same film again, I must admit that I fell in her charm more intensely. She is 'Yesterday'. Since the day I saw her, I'm in love with her. Can any woman be so simple as a dove and at the same time as bold as a rock? Yesterday is the name of an young African mother played by South African actress Leleti Khumalo in the film by the same name ‘Yesterday’ directed by Darrel Roodt . I would rather call her a goddess of simplicity and a symbol of will-power for humanity. There is a scene in which the doctor wonders at her health and says, ‘Yesterday, your body is so strong’. As reply she points at her head and say in a simple smile "It’s all here. I’m not ready until my daughter ‘Beauty’ goes to school”. On another occasion a local schoolteacher calls her a ‘strong woman’ and she tells her “Sorry, I’m not. But that is the way things have to happen.” There is so much of simplicity in her nature and an ambition to live for, which is unique. Fighting with life and survival was a small part of the routine of her day... She never longed for anyone's help or believed in miracles. Her way was to deal with it, as she did with all other situations. The film was much appreciated with awards in many festivals around the glode, including Pune Film Festival.

I am ready to die after seeing at least one such woman in Indian screen or in real life who is not an escapist, whom people don't whistle at - consider as a subject of visual pleasure - or sympathise. It is difficult to see that combination of simplicity and boldness, at a time. There must be a lot of simple woman in Indian screen as nurturing mothers, ideal wives and dedicated daughters. But very few of them are shown equally bold to face reality; rather they are all shown in a way 'dependent or desperate'. There were attempts to portray bold woman too on Indian cinema. But most of them remain bold to the core as if they lost all soft feelings because of the society and people; that make them still the same – desperate and dependant. Hence to both the kind of woman, audience has only one feeling – sympathy, which is ridiculous. Very recently I saw a Malayalam film called Kadha Thudarunnu, in which actress Mamtha’s character was quite appealing as ‘bold and simple’. I enjoyed watching both the beginning and the end of the film, where the creator kept her with that identity. More than generating sympathy, she remained an icon. At the same time I hated the portions where she was shown dependent too.

The lady ‘Yesterday’ in 'Yesterday' is an icon. She never took any sympathy from audience. They rather treated her with dignity. She thus inspires spectators of both the sex on equal levels; she makes them feel that life is so simple and nice. Life has more meanings to it.I am sure nobody sympathised at her neither worshiped her as rebel to the crimes on humanity. They all would prefer to walk with her talking to her holding her hands, sharing moments of daily life. Well, that is what I felt I would do if I happen to see her in real life. Sympathy is probably the only feeling I would prefer not having for anyone. It is disgusting; I can hate someone instead. Recently I was telling a friend that I'm trying to revisit the good things I admired even in my worst enemy, only not to have any sense of anger or sympathy to them, because I know that that I'm capable enough to make my life and their life a disaster with such feelings. Instead of calling someone a ‘bastard’ or ‘bitch’, isn’t it great to say ‘be good’, understanding people (that includes myself) as victims of situation who ironically justifies 'own' actions as well as 'own' decisions on those situations with 'own' logics; leaving the ultimate truth being selfishness. Those who have balls survive reality, others don’t. Escapists die with an identity crisis, that remained nature's will that no one survived yet.

I never liked to leave a theatre space sympathizing at the characters of film; in reality too. Rather, I always enjoyed to be inspired by them. I like to shed a tear of happiness and not sorrow. Till date, no other woman inspired me as much as ‘Yesterday’; both in films and in real life. It's the truth.

I guess I need to get back to my essay now. Catch you soon. Hugs.

Birth at funeral

2010-12-20T05:48:00.000-08:00

I would have said that I am the happiest man under the sun, if it was yesterday morning. Today I’m not sure whether I am under the sun or not. I am pretty much surprised at the events I witnessed today at home. Instead of blaming the lorry driver I would rather hug him tight. I’m also upset at the mad people who threw stones at him as he was trying to run away from the spot. Everybody including my parents is cursing him for everything without knowing the fact. How do I tell them that the stray dog that was saved by his kind behaviour is lying near the corner teashop feeding her newborn puppies with sweet white milk, without knowing anything about her saviour’s situation. His wife is in a confused state, not knowing what to do. She is weeping with her baby close to her breast looking at her husband who came home late at night with a bleeding head. He was shivering badly. She was about to cry loud, but he quickly covered her mouth and whispered “Don’t give me to anyone!” As she stood in a frozen state he dissolved in the state of coma hugging his son on the floor. I was with him yesterday whole night since the time I found my body dead. It took a few minutes for me to accept the reality that I am no more a part of the blood and flesh that protected me from the real world. I followed him immediately. Ironically today is my birthday too.

I attended my funeral today morning. Unlike every other good and bad events that happened at my home, this is the only time I experienced myself as a silent spectator to the expressions of the people who came to see me. My body was the filthiest thing I had even seen in my life. Being a doctor I had seen many such bodies in front of my eyes and I was always been famous for being so merciless. I could be the best actor in the world for that matter. I kept my emotions so passive towards the newborn babies who opened their eyes to me and to the old men who closed their eyes to me. I felt like a God inside and behaved like a man outside. In psychiatry they say that the brain registers every single image that comes in front of our eyes forever. I always carried this pride inside that all those babies must be retaining my face in their subconscious minds as their first connection to the world and the old men having my face as their lost connection to the world. While closing the eyes of the dead bodies of those old men, I saw myself there. Both the babies and the old men said, “Thank you.” I suppose…

You must be wondering why I thanked the lorry driver. It is because of him I could revisit everybody who was been in my life, as a third person. I attended every single conversation they had among themselves. I could read their minds too. My wife never cried until an old friend who happened to be our best buddy in Medical College came to see me from America. I heard their conversation. Heard from him why he never told me the reason for living as a bachelor even today. Whenever I asked he gave a quick look at her that I never noticed when I was alive. But it is strange that she who remained my twin soul and back born in every single moment of my life, kept it as a sad secret. I am not sure how I would have reacted to it even if she had let it out. Today morning as he came in, she ran to his shoulders and cried like a baby. I saw the same face I fell in love, in the corridors of medical college that I lost sometime somewhere in later point of time. Nurses from the hospital whispered, “He used to be their best friend since college. Isn’t he smart?” There are many moments I regretted for making her my wife from a friend. She was good as a friend. Wasn’t she struggling as my wife? Yet, we remained ideal husband and wife for our parents, son and society. We belonged to the same ‘caste’ and ‘religion’ and our horoscope had a good match. Moreover ‘I loved her', nobody asked whether she loved me, including me…

My parents kept crying whole the time since yesterday. Well, how do I tell them that I am feeling happier than ever before in this state. May be they are the next to smell this aroma of incarnation. When I was alive I always had a concern about their life. Old age was eating their body and mind. Like everybody else I could not have imagined parents leaving me on a day that cannot be written by me even as a doctor. I was too worried about such a state. Now as I float around in an invisible animated ‘some’ form that I'm neither solid, liquid or gas with no sense of touch or smell. I am in a state of no ‘state’. I have no surface. I have no depth. I have no future, present or past. My only state is ‘happiness’ – complete happiness that I always kept searching for when I was alive. How do I tell this to my parents? I am not worried about you any more like any other ‘living’ human being.

I saw my son playing with friends of his age from the kinder garden. He was found so happy to see all his cousins at home. Right now, I want to hug the writer of this story and say that my son is the only one who is enjoying my present state of mind. I wanted to tell him that he doesn’t need to be worried about anything. I saw my son acting smart in front of other children as he always did. He was searching for everyone’s attention that brought smiles even to the face of my crying parents. He was also worried that his American uncle didn’t get him chocolates. He hated the silence around. He was not worried about his ‘sleeping Daddy’. His little mind found the reason for the silence - ‘Daddy is sleeping’. He remembered his mother's voice, “Shhhhh……. Daddy is sleeping.” as always.

Unlike every other occasion in Kerala there was good discipline in people’s behaviour. They all came in a perfect queue that stood long to the road. I saw a Minister and a priest too somewhere in the queue. The minister was showing people the meaning of democracy and priest, his decency. Both of them had a mask - only I could see! I saw the unhappy face of Mr. Avarachan too, who helped me with some money. He looked at the half finished house at the next compound that was a dream for me till yesterday. I am not bothered about it today… They all had flowers in their hands and varied expressions on their faces. The nurses who fancied me, on purpose, kept the flowers over that part of my body they wished to see… but missed… as always. They missed me because I was a sensible human being till yesterday and today I was seen as a senseless human body. My life or death didn’t serve any of their fantasies.

Tomorrow my wife and child might leave to America; my parents might have to spend rest of their life in an old age home; the minister might be winning another election; the priest might become Pope; the little babies might grew up as young men still retaining my image in their subconscious minds; the nurses might continue to fancy my photograph and get naughty; the people might be standing in many more queues with flowers… and the puppies might grow up as annoying stray dogs that leave many more lorry drivers in coma… all that doesn’t make any difference in the system of life and society. They still carry stones in their hands. I am not concerned about any of them.

At present I have only thing do - stay with the lorry driver who saved the dog. If the God willing to give me a chance to enter another body as a new life, I would rather choose his body… and continue his journey… protecting many more dogs... Wish you happy birthday.

* photo - Abey Abraham

Skimstone Family

2010-12-16T18:34:00.001-08:00

Birth

2010-12-15T03:28:00.001-08:00

Majority of the Malayalam films that are being celebrated, as cult art films by critics did not fascinate much for one reason, their thematic detachment from current society or their too much attachment to literature. Adaptation of film from literature is definitely acceptable, but while the world is moving towards a cinema of ‘today’- cinema of the truth of today- it is an irony to see the celebrated art filmmakers of Kerala trying to do and redo cinema of and for certain period in the history, vanished in memories following the literature of a certain period. The problem is when they look too much into the accuracy of the visualisation of those periods, more than the theme and their closeness to reality of today, meeting the objective of speaking a truth for the current generation or their situation.

I was seeing Shaji N. Karun’s, Piravi’ yesterday. Unlike many of the cult films from Kerala, that I was always been forced to read as ‘a story happened sometime, somewhere in the history of Kerala’, ‘Piravi’ immediately took to the state of ‘present day’. Arguably, now it is difficult for me to enjoy any other Malayalam film in future, as there arise a natural tendency for a comparison with the standard of this film. The only other film that was rooted on its closeness to reality and the very meaning of a journey of existence could be John Abraham’s ‘Amma Ariyaan’. Living people, life on land, light of love,

the simplicity, the touch, the smell, the attachment to the reality of life as a component of nature and culture of Kerala – these films have no pretentious state to represent or a proud statement of solution to make, but present you with a reality of ‘being on the earth’.

Forgetting all the stubborn statements that ‘Cinema is all about camera movement’, ‘cinema is all about montage’, ‘cinema is all about literature’, ‘cinema is of and by auteurs’…. Well, who is bothered on ‘what cinema is’ and who the hell are we to judge or define ‘cinema’. Considering it so down to earth as a basic ideology of representation of a theme in an artistic manner to the society we live in, what other goal cinema is promising to achieve? Cinema is not about giving solutions; cinema is not about ‘that’, it being called today. As a celebrated cinematographer once said ‘cinema is not a place of worship’ nor it is a ‘factory’ as titled by a known director. It is neither an industry nor mere communication media. At the same time it is all of this at a time for each. Every single person associated with cinema has his own definitions about it. For sustaining our life, we all have our own definitions and reasons. Being human had become the twisting of truth for convenience like a piece of clay. Making various models with same clay and call it ‘This is truth’. Well, each of those models stay as individual truths, with the ultimate truth being the clay. Greatness of an artist is not in his choice of making ten bad art works and one good one, but the choice of not making any of those if they are not from heart in any sense...

This could be the weirdest statement about cinema and I don’t know whether I am eligible to make it. But let me just say this, I consider cinema to be mature as a medium and art, when people identify that there is no experience/environment of difference between the reality they live in and the screen reality. At that moment they might even identify that they don’t need a cinema anymore for their life and happiness. The death of cinema is the maturity of cinema…

To my sister

2010-12-13T17:43:00.000-08:00

I'm here with my 100th blog with a special post for the one who I care the most... The one who remains my biggest support... and best companion... and a good reason for my very existence... My sister, Athira - Aakkutty, as I always called her. Missed you lots... on your engagement...

On one of the holidays days back at home during my graduation time in Hyd, using an old walkman, I recorded a song my father used to sing as a lullaby for me and Aakkutty. Since then, it remained with me whereever I have gone... With the sweet memories of this song, memories of our childhood is yet more strong...

My hearty congratz to you and Arun.

Luv

Arun Chettan

nostalgia

2010-12-05T07:47:00.000-08:00

He belonged to the sea...

2010-12-05T06:11:00.000-08:00

“He belonged to the sea... loved her more than me... & I always left him go. Today too…” Emma told Habeeb in a bold voice, steady and stubborn like the South Shield sea wind. “Today, I know that he won’t be back again ever. Let’s go… Habeeb, It’s freezing. There can be a snowfall anytime from today on...”

She sat down whispering something to herself or to her alterego who just vanished from her vague vision to the darkness of night and the serene layers of salt water underneath. Waves swayed the boat, in a way new to Habeeb who has been listening to the melancholy of Mother Ocean ever since he was born to his fisherman father. His great great grand father belonged to Akhdam community among the Yemini Arabs, who travelled as slave for an Arab merchant to the North East of UK centuries ago. Neither Habeeb nor me the writer have any information on how he happened to become a fisherman for living. No more slavery today, Habeeb is a very respectable individual of the society of South Shield who owns a boat he calls Jannah.

Habeeb started the boat, looking at that old woman aged 87 sitting under a beam of moonlight that intruded in through a hole on the roof of the boat just by the intention of creating a hallow around her head. “Is it a miracle?” Habeeb asked himself. That old woman whom he knew since his childhood looked someone different and unknown. Definitely she is not the same who travelled with him from the shore. Her eyes were shining like never before. He, on purpose, deviated his thought and vision and turned the boat, sailing towards the direction of shore. But then, thoughts cannot be caged… that is the reality of existence…

Emma is of his father’s age, a mother figure for him since his childhood. He who lost his own mother at the age of four found her warm chest as his safest nest. Emma thus became momma for neighbour’s son.

Listening to a seagull’s cry from a distance, Habeeb remembered that ‘surprised little Habeeb’ who first saw the man who came from nowhere to his momma’s life on a warm sunny day. Till then he was a lifeless old photograph in Emma's shelf. Little Habeeb never thought that a photograph could come alive. Since then he carefully cleaned his own mother Saleena’s photo, because he didn’t want her to feel bad if she ever be back again. But she never returned like Emma’s man Richie. After many months Little Habeeb himself found his answer “For photographs to come alive, we must be praying to God for that.” Little Habeeb never prayed to Allah for Saleena to come back. In fact, he never felt the need. He was much happy with Emma. “Emma’s man came back because she prayed for him every day.” He was clear.

Once Richie called Habeeb, “Little devil” with a smile as he understood how far he had gone from Emma and how close Habeeb have been to Emma. He must be jealous. For Emma Richie was God. But her God was the admirer of the vastness of ocean more than that of her eyes. He went sailing again immediately after three months of his stay on land, to the ‘Unknown’, as he always said and done. Emma became alone again.Time scrolled slow for Emma but faster for Habeeb. He became an young man in no time.

The photo at the shelf got life again. But by then, young Habeeb was intelligent enough to know that dead people cannot come alive. At the same time, he was confident that Emma’s Richie cannot die because of her prayers. He came back as an old man to his wife on a pleasant Christmas day. They both looked at each other and laughed for hours looking at the wrinkles on their faces. Emma laughed at Richie’s bald-head while he did the same looking at her hanging breasts. There was laughter again.

Young Habeeb over heard their private talk. Emma lying on Richie’s hairy chest asked “Did you ever make love to any other girl in your journey?”. He replied, “I saw many beautiful women in India, Mali, China and Costa Rica. But I was committed to a woman whom I care for.” Kissing her lips he continued, “ Emma, your deep mystic eyes make me feel that I am still in sea, I have never seen the same in anybody else’s. The sea that I can touch… it gives me unknown targets… an unknown goal to go for… that sea set me moving… to the unknown as unknown… sea loves me and I love sea. Yea, other than you I made love to that sea. Unlike other sailors I never longed for a shore. I never felt you away from me when I was with sea.”

Emma said, “Richie, sorry… I made love to someone too. I made love to the sky when you was away. Sky never had anything to hide from me like you. He was more sincere. He was never been far like you.” Richie held her tight to him as she continued, “Every time I looked up, he showed me clouds or the stars. I tried to forget you. I knew that you must be looking up too, for your directions. One day I realised that each time I lifted my hands to touch the sky, it went much higher and higher.” Emma kissed him all over, “Richie, you know you are very lucky. You can touch your sea whenever you like, forgetting everything. But I cannot touch the sky. In stead, it makes me remember everything. Richie, you kept happy forgetting us. But I remained happy remembering us.”

Sea called him again. Richie left the shore leaving Emma with her sky and Habeeb. Unpredictable English weather changed again. It started snowing cats and dogs. After five days the sailer was found lying on the frozen shore with the waves hitting his feet. Emma ran like a rat to the beech, hugging him tight passing the heat of her chest to his skin.

Richie never left the shore again. He grew older and older with Emma. Most of the time he was at the beech whispering to the waves…with Emma lying beside him on the sand staring the sky. Sometimes she lifted her hands like a baby trying to imagine the clouds in her finger tips by closing one eye, while he was found struggling to bend down to touch the waves that kept competing with each other to touch the feet of their lost companion. They both were partners, but they had their own partners too. Richie once pointed his fingers towards the horizon. He started laughing, "Emma, look. Don't you think your sky and my sea are meeting and mating, so openly. I sailed to see their meeting point." Suddenly Richie became serious. He held Emma's face close to his eyes, "Now, don't you think we both were the victims of illusions... Let us accept the fact..." Emma hugged Richie in a way she had never done before. They made love on the beech forgetting their age, place and time.

Together, with each passing moment, they became older and older... One day the old Richie told introduced Emma to Habeeb, “If sea is love, she is sea & If she is love, she is sea. Its true...'young' devil”, Young devil smiled. He felt a father in Richie.

A silent wave lifted the boat in its hands. It started snowing lightly. “Habeeb…. It is bad weather. We need to reach home before everyone arrive.” Emma woke him up from his thoughts. Suddenly the reality they had to face the next day placed Habeeb in a confused state. To that state of mind Emma continued, “Habeeb, my sailor husband never knew to swim. He actually feared the water he loved and he was never been satisfied by any of his journey on the waves. Richie loved sea, scared sea and respected sea. The sea that washed him to the shore during the snow was his true wife. In a way, my life with him was her decision. He always dreamt of diving deep down to the bottom of her laps like a fish. He once promised me to send him there. I was scared to do that when he was alive. But not today… I am leaving him free to his dream destiny...that no one can deny him, including me...”

Habeeb got up from his seat and went beside Emma. He hugged her tight as her eyelids left a few drops of tears that fell fresh on his hands. Habeeb imagined Richie’s body touching the bottom of the ocean.

That was the only time he saw Emma cry and that was the last time she cried too…

Skimstone

2010-12-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

http://skimstone.org.uk/

Today is a wonderful day for me, true to my journey with Claire, Pete and the young people at Skimstone Studio, started since January this year. Finally our new website shaped up in its fresh new look and feel, all thanks to Andrew for designing it. As I was telling Claire today, “There are two kind of visitors for any website. The ‘quick-look-visitors’ and the ‘close-look-visitors’. I guess this site has visibility and appeal for both.” With a new air of freshness, we are starting… this fresh new journey of vision and mission, together… Cheers

Beyond, Beside and Beneath

2010-12-03T03:54:00.000-08:00

While walking to Rasa yesterday, I was thinking of an interesting story my Malayalam sir, Devasiya told me when I was in 6^th or 7^th standard. Those who studied Malayalam would definitely know the German missionary Hermann Gundert, who compiled the first Malayalam grammar and dictionary. Once a native from Kerala seeing Gundert’s cat eyes made fun of him without knowing his knowledge in Indian languages – “Ganapathi Vahana Ripu Nayana” means ‘The one who have the eyes of enemy (cat) of the carrier (rat) of Lord Ganesaha”. It seems, in seconds Gundert responded to him in a his humorous manner “Dasharatha Nandadana Sakhi Vadana” – “ The one who has the face (monkey face) of the best friend (Hanuman) of King Dasharatha’s son (Lord Sriram).

The history and culture of Kerala always fascinated me, ever since the time I read the whole collection of Kottarathil Shankunni’s ‘Aithihyamala’ from Swamiji’s library. My mother being an avid reader of Mathrubhoomi Weekly that always carried quality articles- both informative and critical- inspired me to read nonfiction and semi-fiction more than fiction. My mother’s favourite book ‘Parayi Petta Panthirukulam’ could be the novel I have read the maximum number of times in my life. There is a sense of pride in understanding the importance of the land, the people born in that soil and the events that made that South West strip of India so different from other places. Protected by the Western Ghats at the East and Arabian Sea at the West, the birth of the landscape was believed to be a gift of the axe of Lord Vishnu’s immortal saint avathar Parashuraman.

While serving Travancore Chicken Masala and Thalassery Chicken at the restaurant, I do think about all that I learnt in my childhood about the division of provinces of today’s Kerala during king’s era. Kerala, is the first state of India that voted a communist government under E.M.S. Namboodiripadu. In Orissa, I while doing the documentary film on Gond and Kondth tribes I met an elderly ex-naxalite leader who changed to core Gandhian, who happened to tell me a lot of stories about his friendship and work with E.M.S.

May be it is madness in the name of caste and creed that made Vivekananda call Kerala, a Mental Asylum, but beyond that it is a place where many religions co-existed for many centuries. Kerala is a rare region where there the pilgrims to a Hindu temple (Shabarimala) start their journey visiting a Mosque. Today’s Kerala and India are under the clutches of politically religious and religiously political bastards. Amalgamation of religion and politics is the worst sin faced by the nation and the state today. Well, isn’t that the true ‘Divide and Rule’ policy we kept blaming the colonial rule in our own social studies text books for many decades.

I was watching the film Kuttishrank by Shaji N. Karun that represented the past of three different divisions of Kerala in an effective manner. I thoroughly enjoyed the sequences of the arrival of Kerala’s traditional ‘Pathemari’ (wooden boat) at Northern coast, from Cylone with a bunch of Buddhist monks who were travelling to Bodhgaya.

While coming to UK the only book I carried with me was “Kerala Charithram (The History of Kerala)” by A. Sridharamenon that showed how rich was the trade relation the Keralan landscape had with the other nations around the globe. The region hosted both the traders from the East and the West with the same interest at varied time periods that clearly say that Kerala was never been an isolated space in the history of mankind.

I haven’t started with this blog in the objective of an NRI way of spitting his nostalgia. Well, for that matter, I have never considered myself an NRI. When my parents asked me what is the difference between the people in UK and Kerala, I was confused. I don’t really think emotionally and sensibly anyone is different. Except for color and culture, I wouldn't be able to judge anyone from any land based on emotions, senses, ethics and aesthetics. The rights, wrongs and choices might be different according to the geographical origin but then who are we to judge the rights, wrongs and choices.

While starting with the blog I was thinking of elaborating on the philosophy of identifying one of the smallest creature of the world, rat, for the bulkiest God of Hindu mythology, Lord Ganesha who has the head and structure of an elephant as represented in epics and art. Isn’t it very ironical and philosophical? Isn’t it the truth of life. The little one’s carrying the bulkiest’s. I guess that is the beauty of life... again.

Now, more snow...

2010-11-27T04:13:00.000-08:00

I was high on a lone adventure yesterday night. Reached home at 3.30 AM. Muzammil and Soma was still awake. True to her understanding of me, Soma had a clear guess where I could have been and she was right. I was at Leazes Park, lying alone on a bed 10-inch snow near the frozen lake amidst the naked trees holding the feathers from the heaven hearing to the wind and the ‘slient’ movement of swans and ducks. Soma was so clear in mind that I was there. Well, my best friend she is. Snow, snow wasn’t an illusion. It belonged to me and will stay mine, silently. It will vanish in no time, with a promise to be back again. The whole scenery looked so alienated from the city space holding the look and feel of a frame from some Dracula film.

After work, when we left the restaurant it was 12.30 Am. It was snowing heavily and the whole road was blocked. Naturally no taxies were around, Thanks. So we all decided to walk home. The white features of sky and the festive mood of night at Newcastle was so seductive. So mid-way, I said good-bye and turned towards ‘Sinners’. Well, ‘Sinners’ is the only pub I visit here in this city coz of its row nasty dirty ambience, cheap beer and my lone corner to move to the music. As always I stopped with a pint and walked out to hug the snowy night.

While walking back playing with the snow ball and photographing the white carpet around I encountered the emptiness of Leazes Park waving to my solitude. There is genuine reason for my addiction to lone, silent, haunted spaces being a metaphor to me myself. Through the 10 inch white carpet of snow I scrolled towards the lakeside. As expected, the view was breath taking. For a moment I did miss someone to share it with. I walked around the lake and lied down on snow for a while. Photographed in that low light, as much as possible. The snow was still virgin, untouched and smooth, straight form the sky. I touched the water in the lake. It was frozen. The bed of snow had a florescent feel to it reflecting the mild light still trapped in the sky.

I cannot explain the view that I enjoyed with mere words. I tried to capture it on my mobile cam. But trust me, it has no life. I was telling Soma the other day. “I guess snow is the only thing that I am not confident to capture on camera with its real charm and flavour. On camera the white reflective colour keeps everything flat to the eyes of audience. ”As I got out from the Park, met three Chinese guys and a girl whom I could make friendship with. It was good fun.

It was a great memorable day, started with an adorable status msg from my best friend Swarna in facebook. “Swarna miss UK. All thanks to Arun Bose” for that I replied “In UK, Arun Bose miss UK too, all thanks to Swarna.” The day ended with a night at Leazes Park whispering to my solitude and snow… It was worth living… Life is beautiful.

Seeing my short film “No More Snow”, filmmaker friend Matthew Burge from South Shield and his partner Melanie said, “the English way is to enjoy when the sun is out, snow happens every year.” The problem here is, “I am not born English. Naturally I won’t be able to behave English. I’m meant to be mesmerized by snow… Now, more Snow….”

Home

2010-11-27T03:06:00.000-08:00

It was the first day of Soma at studio with me. I liked that surprise look on her face, seeing the unconventional collaborative process-led way of filmmaking that was new to her. As always we got into some serious action plan together. Everybody together worked on our new animation film plans and sketched. I could be a kid again plunging into the ocean of colours with Claire's paintbrushes. As always ended up crafting the same old Keralan landscape familiar to heart...

Tim

2010-11-23T04:20:00.000-08:00

My flatmate and brother, Tanweer Ahmad told me that I sometimes end up degrading myself in front of others while going to all extends of making friends. He said this to me on the day after Halloween party night at university. I asked him “How?” He said, “I don’t know, but in your drunken state, yesterday night, you were communicating too much with that street musician.” After hearing this I asked Tanweer, “Can you remember his name?” For that he nodded “No”. I asked Soma and Muzammil, who were with us then, the same question. The answer was still “no”. I said, “He is Tim.”

This is something crazy that happened with me on Halloween night. While returning back home after the party at late night we met this cello musician at Northumberland Street. He was playing music to the street for money. In my drunken mood I dragged my friends towards him and asked them to listen to him. I don’t remember everything fully but I do remember inviting young girls and boys who were returning home from various pubs to listen to his music. Tanweer told me that I created a crowd around him and made everyone talk to him. I was sitting with him and talking about his music until my friends pushed me away. He was as a warm and friendly gentle man to talk with. He then told me his name, “Tim”.

On next Friday, at 4.30 pm, on my rush hour from studio to the restaurant, I met Tim near Monument. I called him. We had a good chat sitting at the street again. He shared his life, experiences, music and most interestingly a lot of inputs about his other job – puppetry. He seemed so excited talking to me about himself. While leaving he gave me a card showing his puppet models and shared his phone number, promising that he will some day do music with me.

Yesterday I met Tim again. He smiled at me. He tried to remember my name “Let me remember your name, Aaaroon right”. I said “Yes, but you can call me Arun insteadJ”. He laughed. As usual, Tim was playing at Northumberland Street for money. Yet, he didn’t let me put any coins in his tray. On the other hand talked to me about his plans of buying a new mobile phone. Asked my suggestions on what model to get with the money he gathered. I felt so touched. Isn’t that true friendship? God gave me so many friends… He has no other business but shower friends all around me. J Well, God is definitely my best buddy. He is Eric, he is Tim. He is you…too…… if you are there in my life. Let me stay addicted to your smiles.

Choice to choose

2010-11-18T18:30:00.000-08:00

Its 2.00 AM now. I’ve just finished watching one of my favourite film ‘Rock On’ with friends Soma and Tanweer sitting in my room. I’m not feeling sleepy yet. Today is a day I could learn two things about myself. The first is that my joy in filmmaking is not about the choice to make a film, but the choice of not doing a film. The second was that good feeling of hearing something from Pam, my friend Carlene’s mother.

I was chatting with a filmmaker friend from Kerala regarding a new concept I have in mind for a project that has possibilities of developing into a full-length film. He liked the concept and immediately responded that he can try getting me a producer and facilities to fulfil it, if I could do a compromise on script by changing it from my key idea of a theme centric story to a character centric story, where then the presence of a known actor can be explored for marketability. The whole idea of film is based on a very familiar English word. After a cup of a coffee I told him that I would rather wait with the same concept than doing a change. I did say this, “I'm happy that I still cherish the freedom of not doing this film”. My friend had a tough time to understand. He repeated the same question a few times, “What is that 'freedom' you are talking about?”

At studio after the screening of short film 'The Old Code' to cinematographer Chad, my friend Carlene’s mother came and told me that she recently purchased a collection of Laurel and Hardy after seeing The Old Code. She said that she never appreciated slapstick comedies during her younger ages and seeing Old Code was gaining her attention towards that genre. I naturally felt so blessed to contribute to the idea of Chris.

Life is all about choices and freedom of choices. I guess, the output follows on how sincerely one embraces his or her inner sense. I am now placed in the dilemma on a situation triggered by a phone call from Kerala. I hope everything end positive.

System of chaos

2010-11-11T15:55:00.000-08:00

Once while staying with my good friend Rayson at Camp Road Chennai, looking at the condition of our house and his room I argued that his disorderly nature has to be corrected. It was always been a situation of chaos and confusion for me there. For me everything was everywhere and nothing was anywhere. I told him that it is difficult to manage at such a condition together. Rayson was a person who threw stuff everywhere and I used to be the opposite. My mind is always indulged on some thought, hence I had to make it clear that my purse is at one corner and watch is at another corner. Every object that is related to me had to be in a specific place. If misplaced, that means, my day is gone. I strongly argued with Rayson that being systematic is very essential.

Rayson smiled and said, “Who told you that there is no system here? Chaos also has an inbuilt system. Ask me to pick up anything in this house, even a small needle. I can get it for you.” That was my first lesson on the system of chaos. Later I understood it through various experiences. I must admit that since then I always tried to correlate Rayson’s idea of the ‘system of chaos’ to a lot of other situations.

Looking at my country India, it is chaos everywhere. Probably, the only nation in the world that has so much of diversities to handle under the same rule. Naturally to place any system in place at a national perspective is not easy at all. I was actually trying to understand the very systematic Britain to the chaotic India. It is quite interesting to see that in India too things keep happening on time and according to the need, but not steady or systematic though. To be honest the most annoying thing for me here in UK is probably the lack of personal communications. Anything and everything end up in a call to a call centre.’ I agree that things do happen smoothly in UK through call centres. But there is something missing in between, the joy of eye to eye communicating with someone in person. In India too things keep happening... without any call centres but passing through various stages of chaos.

“Chaos has an inbuilt system”, today I agree with Rayson. System and chaos are two sides of coin – Choas has a system & the system has chaos too. Societies that live on chaos co-exists with the one that has system in place.

Tyne(river)side

2010-11-06T04:31:00.001-07:00

Best evenings with my best friends... Swarna & Soma . I still keep calling Soma, Swarna :) by mistake, even now, since the time I have known her. Riding cycle beside Tyne river at Quayside is the most peaceful time today... It was nice touching the river. In fact I took a tiny sip of water, salty water. People say it is dirty... but I wanted that experience.

Coconuts..., But Where !!!

2010-11-04T18:27:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, one evening, while carrying some sacks of coconut on my head to the kitchen store of the restaurant for which I work, I thought about my village days. My father used to be so adamant that I must do everything by myself. He used to leave me at our ancestral home on weekends to take care of the farm. I used to spend a lot of time alone cleaning rubber sheets that had fungus or gathered coconuts, nut mugs, pineapples etc from the farm and carried on my head. He always used to leave the motorbike with me to go out and call autorickshaw to transport the coconut, pineapple or rubber sheets to the local store and do the sale. There were very few lucky Sundays that I could manage to finish work and return back home to watch the Malayalam film that started at 4 pm in television. Either I had to miss early morning Hindi film music program Rangoli or the evening Malayalam film, though I had an addiction for both. My Sundays had a disturbing end if by chance the electricity go off during my favourite program of the day, Surabhi at night 9.30 pm.

Though I hated the work at farm during my childhood, later I developed immense love for the art of agriculture. My stay away from home since the year 2000, never allowed me to have the same feel of soil and water again. But each time when I was at home on a holiday, my father made it a point to take me to the farm and get me involved in some activity. The agriculture scenario is not the same anymore as it was once. At those places where paddy or pineapples plants stood waving to the wind, there are concrete houses. I have seen this transformation in past ten years being an occasional visitor at my own land.

While carrying the sacks of coconut, I read the words written on that. “Made in Srilanka”. For a moment I was curious to know where there is any coconut exports from the land of coconut, Kerala. Producer to a consumer state- the transformation that is happening today could be an expensive scenario tomorrow. I must be blaming anyone including me for this. Where is that Arun who roamed around freely in the farm cutting pineapples and climbing nut mug trees? He had wounds on his hand caused by the thorny pineapple leaves. He always had sweat on his face. Last December before coming to UK, while I was at the village, I did climb a nut mug tree to the top chewing the flavour of its leaf.

With all my gains in life, I am sure I am missing a lot too… Yet in this journey of life, I have never came across anything better than watering a plant at the farm. Only for that feel, I do maintain a plant in my room wherever I stayed. There is a little money plant near my window that smile at me each time I sprinkle some water on her face.

Unknown

2010-11-03T16:07:00.000-07:00

Afternoon I got a msg from an young filmmaker named, Dwarakh Anath in Face Book,

"My short film "UNKNOWN" got selected to the final round in Minibox International Short filmfest.. You guys need to help me as every viewer counts me a hit.. so pls help me WATCHING THE FILM 'FULLY' and putting ur valuable FEEDBACKS. Thanks."

http://www.miniboxoffice.com/default.aspx?id=12&vt=FF#

I truly enjoyed watching this film for the very peppy feel of the concept, music and dialogues. I could relate to it so well. Three months back, in Newcastle, I could save a love-relation that would have got spoiled completely because of distance. A friend who was at the point of break up, called me out for a coffee at night to have a chat about it. Her eyes were wet. Ironically, I was going through a similar state of mind. Yet, I told her a lot of things that came to my mind that I was been telling myself though my actual thoughts never came out as actions. While leaving back home, she told me that she could remember only one sentence that came from my mouth, "Poor fellow is busy and you are confused. If the one who knows him leave him today on a momentary thought and misunderstanding, who else would understand him tomorrow." When I said this, I hardly knew her boy friend. I also told her that, in case she is confident at her decision on break-up, that must not happen over an email or a phone call, but face to face on a friendly talk sharing what is going on in their minds so that they need not have to be hiding their faces from each other in future. The decision to live together was taken together, then how could one person alone decide on a break-up. Three weeks back, an early morning, I left her at National Express bus station, Newcastle for her bus to Heathrow for her flight to India. She give me a tight hug before getting into the bus and today I am so excited to know about their marriage in December, on a day that happens to be my birthday too. There is a crazy commercial film on dance, music and romance that came decades back in Tamil, where the guy tells the girl to count till ten before making her choices. That included the choice to hug him too. Though it sounded awkward then, today it seems to have some meaning to it. Decisions in life are always difficult to define. I can now reveal a weird habit I do follow during such tuff moments in my professional life. At the peak of a situation beyond my control, I quietly sneak in to the toilet so that nobody see me for five minutes and free myself of all cloths and make it feel "I came alone like this to earth without anything. I am not taking anything back too. Let me face this silently, sincerely." Trust me that always worked. I could look at the same task as a different person then. I am not asking anybody to try this, I know it sounds weird. If it is possible I would rather stand naked in the middle of an empty ground to make myself understand how small I am. My best friend, my twin soul and the parter of my loneliness, messaged me "Guess my body doesn't like me anymore. Don't know how long I can be with you. Please learn to live yourself." I said this, "Promise, I'll live for sure - laughing and making people laugh."

The Old Code

2010-11-01T10:57:00.001-07:00

My best friend for past seven years, Deepu always says, “Macha, Be a villain or a hero, but don’t ever become a clown. I prefer me as a villain.” For that I always had this reply, “People can forget the hero and the villain, but not the clown. I would rather be that clown. I'm addicted to smiling and smiles.” Till date, neither he accepted my point nor I accepted his point. That was always been my relation with him. 100% a true Liberian-Sagittarian one. Our friendship happened from the college with his routine cigarette break outside the campus. Deepu and me are from two extremes fighting with each other on anything and everything, every single day since the very first day of our friendship. But the result of our togetherness was always been magical. At MCC we did projects together. The documentary we did on Bishop Heber Hall was more than a college project. It is the first video document on Hall Life in MCC. With the screening of our the film ‘Forever Heber’, at Heber Hall day 2003, we set a new trend of video screenings about Hall life in halls on their respective Hall Days, that is being followed religiously since then. From ‘Forever Heber’ we now reached ‘My Paper Boat’. Still busy in our arguments, strong as ever before. I was on phone with him, few minutes back. Blame it on our zodiacs - He is water and I’m fire. I do remember the same with my cousin Sharath too and somebody else who is special to me.

I wanted to write a blog on the film “The Old Code”, but after talking to Deepu his statement on clowns came to my mind. Even now I stick to my opinion and I thoroughly enjoyed performing as a clown ‘Lord Fredric Mongomery Smithers’ as called by the Director Chris and team. Well, more interesting was acting with my adopted daughter Char and brother Stuart, here in Newcastle. I also enjoyed being directed than direction, stepping down from all the tensions carried by director’s hat. Hence I had more than enough time on the set to fool around with everyone, the activity probably best suit me as my identity.

Of late, I had this realisation that most of my friends admire for me being crazy and goofy and expect me to be that way. For one or two months I was not been myself, this year. But the very moment I was back updating a status message ‘I scream, you scream we all scream for ice cream.’, I got a reply from a good friend “Oh God, you are back.” followed by the next one that gave me goose bumps “Walking with you grantees that I will have an extra year to live. You have no right to go.” More than understanding those comments on its surface level, it did realise me about my responsibility as an individual. It was a state of incarnation to recognize what I am probably good at and what I could be doing in future and what others admire me for.

Till now, I never pampered my sister, but she relate to me more with my craziness. Once at Dakshinchitra, while watching a dandiya performance by a Gujarthi community club, I saw my sister quietly following the steps in her mind. Without even telling her I pushed her into the group and asked her to follow what her intuition says. For the next half an hour she was dancing dandiya. Following her, a few other women joined from the crowd. My sister was silent while returning back, but she had a surprised smile on her face that I cannot forget for this lifetime. I have never gifted anything to my sister except for a few such moments and that is what she probably expects from me too. Two days back while returning back from the Hallooween party, late at night, I dragged my friend Soma to the middle of empty Nunsmoor Park and asked her to look at the stars. Well, how many of us are missing such views in life. we returned back touching all possible yellow leaves on the ground. At home once while the music of Yanni’s ‘Adiago in C Minor’ was playing I closed her eyes, spreading her hands, whispered in her ears, about my experience of watching the Atlantic sea from the tip of a cliff at Jurassic Coast. Soma did follow me so well, that she said she felt the ocean in front of her. I was making fun of her saying, I must teach her fiancé the same trick to take it to another level :).

Actor/writer Srinivasan once said, “ The characters's tragedy is what we call audiences’ comedy.” My role model Chaplin (Deepu hates me for that) said, “I wish to cry in the rain so that no one see my tears.” I am not satisfied as a performer or an individual unless and until, I could make someone special smile… that might not happen ever again in life.

Love

2010-10-27T03:27:00.000-07:00

In my last module on Film Studies, Gender and Sexuality in Cinema, I have done an essay based on the study of three short film on eros, in experimental omnibus film titled 'EROS' by three directors Wong Kar-Wai, Steven Soderburgh and Michelangelo Antonioni. All the three directors had their varied view on love, lust and eros in cinema. My introduction to the essay is as follows,

Love and Eros are paradoxically two widely contrasting yet closely connected terms. Love can be erotic but all that is erotic need not be love. There always remained the question that whether or not an erotic art form is also a representation of love. Victorian semi-nude sketches and paintings to the old historic sculptures crafted on the postures of sexual pleasure based on the book Kamasutra are considered erotic, yet a true representation of affection and love. The French film critic and filmmaker Ado Kyrou, in his book ‘Amour-Erotisme Et Cinema’, argues that the traditional ideology is based on the isolation of tender love and respect from lust and libido.

The new short film ‘Love’ that I shared in facebook was a deliberate attempt to understand the perception to the above-mentioned notion on EROS. Since the moment I wrote the essay, I was thinking on how differently people think about a lovemaking scene in film. ‘Love’ was a little experiment with the audio-visaul art form I strongly believe in. I’m sure I’m not causing any public or private harm. Neither the film had protagonists who are naked nor there is an erotic seductress in the film. There aren’t any explicit sex sequences, except of half lighted floor and camera angle that is contributing the voyeurism of audience, a poetic rhythm and a piece of music to which the performer react to his guitar as his partner in love.

Love: A chapter and a metaphor to Love. It is an attempt to realise a virtual ambiance of love. Thanks to my flatmates for sharing thoughts on this. I have reasons not to title it Lust. Good experiences make it a divine feeling called love and the bad ones make it devilish lust. Love is when mind and body together REACT and lust is when the body alone 'ACT'.

I guess this is one of my most successful lab-experiment, with lighting, music and performance, looking at the variety of comments I received. A lot contributed to what I read and wrote in the essay on EROS, and I find it true too. Thank you guys. It was a excellent learning experience.

Beyond colours...

2010-10-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

“I was hurt when someone told me that a shot in the film I worked was fantastic. He said he was so thrilled at the camera angle and lighting of that particular shot.” Cinematographer Madhu Ambat told the audience. I was attending the ‘Lights On session’ at Sathyam Theatres, Chennai two years back. For the surprised look of audience he continued “It was like saying “wow” that particular line in the novel was so touching. Until cinema is treated as a complete art work, what is the point of praising one shot and its excellence? As a technician I was happy but not as the creator.”

My cinematographer friend Anbu very often says “Machi, the chain of beautiful frames I see in a film is such a torture, after certain point of time. Is life that beautiful as they represent in films? Definitely no, then why do we create such spectacular visuals? ”. Listening to them, I learnt a lot from the veteran and the beginner on equal levels. Both of them are right. Recently I read the same from texts on Neorealist filmmakers and French critics. Last week my Professor, Dr. Jamie Sexton was taking a session on how IMAXs came decades back and how it failed to continue to excite people after the initial excitement. IMAXs are definitely back for sure. But I bet it will stay as a powerful medium only if the cinema remains an authentic piece of art and not a visual spectacle made only for that.

Without knowing anything about cinema, during my college days I asked Anbu whether the theatre can be in the shape of an egg and the audience can feel the screen all around them as if the are in reality. What if the theatre make you feel like you are in a battle field and from one corner a horse rider approach you and shoot an arrow right above you to the other end of the space where his opponent warrior stands. Even today I would like to see a cinema like that, but if and only if it is rooted on aesthetics and principles true to its essence and common sense. I am not talking about rules, which I never believed in. For that matter I don’t think any art is cocooned inside a set of rules.

All that disturbs is exaggeration beyond imagination, as long as an art claims to be the representation of societies, cultures and landscapes. My say has nothing to do with fantasy tales. I am still an admirer of comic books. Still read the Malayalam children magazines Balarama, Poompatta, Bobanum Molliyum and Pico classics with the same passion and enthusiasm with which I read them in my childhood. I still do watch Walt Disney cartoons and fantasy films. I was watching the Padmarajan film ‘Njan Gandharvan’ with my good friend Soma yesterday. It was still a magical experience, like a dream that leave you dream more... Andre' Bazin's concept of realism was very interesting to hear. Professor said that in Bazin's point of view cinema has a privileged relation to realism.

Tree of Hope

2010-10-18T03:34:00.000-07:00

Sundar

2010-10-17T07:23:00.001-07:00

It was so exciting to talk to Sundar today. When I called him, he was in bus passing through the village Dusi, where we together documented the Tiraupati Amman festival last year. He too got so excited and shouted back, “I was thinking of the devil and there u r on phone talking to me. Is it magic?” What more to say, “I do miss you brother.” I remember the terrace of that lodge we stayed in Kanchipuram when you first talked to me all about ur life and hugged me tight with tears. That was the first time you called me brother. The afternoon when I left NFSC, I knew that you just vanished for lunch only because you could not see me leaving. It was on purpose that I didn’t go finding you to say a Good-bye. Sundar is the best ‘people management’ person I had ever met. He can be emotional at various levels, but at the same time he can perfectly balance the levels of it to the practicality and situation. He is so talented at reading the mind of the people who he works with. A perfect quality for community based projects.

The village Dusi was our first field trip together, when we hardly knew each other. Interestingly, on the second day of the field trip I called the office and said I have a serious problem working with him. Ironically, on the third day I called again to say that I would like to continue to work with Sundar. What I understood from the first day was that before doing research work with Sundar, I must do my basic research on Sundar. Thus I took him to the open terrace of the lodge at night and talked to him holding his hands. The rock melted. In an hour, I understood who is Iyer, who is Sundar and who is Manivannan, thus that man who is admired by people with all these names.Since then we were together since I left NFSC. We worked day and night, travelling like nomads in search of the essence of community we worked with. His ‘little’ presence was important than his ‘complete’ presence. While shooting the festival he used to vanish from the spot for many hours, but the moment I was tired and in need of a quick nap, he were there behind me smiling, to take over the camera.

Though a lot of hick-ups happened between us - A LOT OF TIMES - I always considered him as the leader of the project every time we travelled to work with a community. Hence in all documentaries I did with him, I have him credited as co-director without measuring to what extend his contribution was, as strongly believed that none of those films would have shaped so well without his skills with people and community.

Sundar’s experience of working with the people helped me a lot to mingle with the community. He knew how to get the right result from the mind of a person. I used to leave him as the interviewer stepping aside as a cameraman coz it was great watching him doing that with perfection. In case he missed something, I just had to give a little hint for him to grab the question. Moreover he equally understood the commitment we had for the community and artists as we went on studying them. More than an ethnographer, being a humanitarian is equally important while working with a community. He had seen the struggles of Therukoothu artists throughout his life. Those months when they have absolutely no performances, they live on the little wages from other jobs. As I have seen, it is the passion that drives most of the artists to their art more than monitory benefits. But it was difficult to understand who were actually in need and who were not. For Sundar I did frame a few funding proposals to help the artists. Still there were many occasions that I felt Sundar behaving like a rock to some people’s emotions and tears. When I asked about that he said, “Not all those actors are poor and needy. You need to recognize the actors of life too. Let us support the needy not the greedy.”

There is good example of his intelligence in this space. After documenting the festival at Dusi we promised that we would give a copy of the whole 44 tapes we shot at the village. According to the promise, we went back after a few months. Interestingly the villagers themselves had forgotten about our promise to them. When I was about to handover the DVDs to a well-known person in the village, Sundar called me back and announced to the entire crowd that there would be a ceremony at village temple where NFSC would be sharing the whole 44 tapes to the village-head in the presence of all villagers along with the screening of best moments of the event. He also announced that if anybody wants to see the videos in future, they could contact the village-head and collect it for free. I was shocked about the plan of such a big event, but then the last line Sundar said made me realise his logic.

On our way back Sundar said, “Why would we let one person have the control of all DVDs. What if he put it for sale and makes money for himself alone? Moreover after a ceremony, every villager would be confident that we were not trying to exploit them.” Dusi is now a home for me because of Sundar. There are a lot of people who recognize me there. I do remember that little girl who walked with me to main road, asking me to take her as a sister to Chennai.

In Chennai, Sundar was always “Sundar” to me and I was “Arun Sir” for him. But the very moment we entered the vicinity of Kanchipuram I called him “Iyereeeee…” He then gave a quick grin and then switched on to a fake serious look and said, “Deiii…”

Sketches

2010-10-06T14:34:00.000-07:00

Through the Mining Villages around Newcastle

2010-10-03T07:10:00.000-07:00

Caged

2010-09-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

Cage of mind is a perspective.

Even a giant can be caged if looked in a different angle,

a perspective...

Why caging the mind...!!!

A little away

2010-09-21T08:19:00.000-07:00

Away away

A way,a way

Again, again

A gain, a gain

With winds I flow

With waves I glow

Words of Hello..oow!

At world’s window

Alone alone…

A long I’ve gone…

Life of my life,

Left, I hope safe...!

Will you say,

With a will to stay !

"If you get me,

Few forget me..."

Away away,

A bit away.

A way again

Alone alone...!

I see me packing my bags for the journey from my home in Chennai… I see every single moment of it... The most sweetest day in my life. I can hear Mary Aunty and her last words to me. I did delay my journey to Kerala for a day, as she wanted me to be with her family on the day of Christmas. I never knew then, it was her last Christmas. Today when I rewind the time, that day’s delay remains so precious than anything else in this world. Yesterday, while video chatting with a wildlife filmmaker, I was saying why most filmmakers or videographers don’t venture into wildlife filmmaking. It is all about right action at right time capturing the right content for right audience. Cannot wait for the perfect light to arrive and subject to pose for the camera. I guess, doing is more important than a decision, for such people. I am one among them. Whether life or film, that is my way. Right or wrong, I don’t trust second thoughts. No regrets about life, while following the heart and intuitions, fully…sincerely. Doing is my decision, than deciding to do and then do. Mistakes remain experience. Regret of losing a moment eats me more than a possible mistake at that moment. Today, sitting back in my room in Newcastle, alone, I did rewind the time. Have I changed any bit? Not at all… I am not far, just a little away... to my true essence, in all sense.

The old code - Making

2010-09-19T04:49:00.001-07:00

Precious Rubbish

Fish & the Yesterday Song

Screening at Teeside

2010-09-09T06:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, at Concept Film Night by Teeside University, Teeside we were asked to perform the task of telling a love story in 5 words. It was interesting to hear the imagination of various people and their one-line stories. I too quickly scribbled one –

“Wind Brought Waves to Beach.”

While coming back home I reframed it this way–

“With Wind, Waves Reached Beach”.

It was quite interesting to be a part of the fest watching some thought provoking short films by filmmakers from Northeast, sharing ideas with each of them and the audience. I was invited to the fest to present two of my own films and another one that I edited for my good friend Brijilin, under the banner of Cockroach in Cocktail and one in collaboration with Trinity Pictures and Rolling Coin. The films were My Paper Boat, Mission Escape and Face or Fall.

While seeing the films on a big screen - seeing it being enjoyed, understood and appreciated by a good set of audience - memories of the making of each of them, the cast, the crew- all flashed in mind so loud and clear. Even those tiny bits of fun and fights we had among us while realising them. Shooting of ‘Face of Fall’ at the street in front of my home in Chennai at mid night hours with an unknown autorickshaw driver as an actor, making fun of my good friends in Hexaware Technologies on their life with mouse by showing all the mice escaping from the computers in ‘Mission Escape’, travelling with the my film crew stuck behind me on the bike seat and the Paper Boat boy ‘Arjun’ in front of me on the petrol tank of my good old Yamaha Crux bike, and the camera bag and the tripod hanging on each of the sides – Well, I have answer to the audience to who asked what filmmaking is about and how much it cost. Filmmaking is sharing thoughts, love and ideas. It cost me nothing but friendship and a collective passion and vision.

As the other filmmakers who participated in the event James Harris, Richard MacLeod, Chris Bailey also suggested films are about passion and it costs nothing but passion. To be honest, one of the most thrilling moment for me was, hearing from Chris that he had seen 'My Paper Boat' in shooting people website, much before. It did surprised me on how far and wide internet can take short films. Glad to meet a filmmaker friend who even went one step ahead creating a campaign film to protect the only green space he claimed to have left in the middle of the city Middlesburgh with the film ‘Beacon of Hypocrisy’. While the animation film ‘Answer Yam’ entertained with jokes, films like Life for Life, Passing and Untitled left questions to think about. I truly enjoyed the evening. It was equally interesting to travel back with filmmaker friend Matthew Burge in his car learning more about the history and geography of North East of UK.

I did say this - I like it when films are not made, but happens from nowhere, the way it was always been in my life.

Alter Ego

2010-08-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

Memories of certain moments murmured the meek melancholy of life, marking mind many miles apart by months. I am moving on... Dear September, as u scorch beside my windowpane, prayers and promises that peeped in heart by peppy days dated last December seems as dry as dust vanishing way away with the winds whispering something strange, weird and wise. The fine and the insane inside, at the same time, together gather grey grains, reality gifted for gain. Where there was an untameable toddler, some saw the statue of an immobile old man with wings cut, eyes shut. Hatred is that level of love, when love is little hated.

Walking one step ahead of the agony of existence, I encountered the real pleasure of existence… With u… I go… Alter ego... As you are right, so am I ! Breathing on the feeling of your warm breath caressing my cheeks as your rosy lips seeking my lips and touch of finger tips, seeing an unseen eye understanding us up, deep and clear... well wide as sea… Call it nature or destiny… Care not to see it so tiny to deny… Whilst they hugged that 'named someone' in me, you smooched that ‘nameless no one’. Let me slide, slip in, hide and sleep between your chest as him, that nameless no-one, who I am. Kisses... u know where it is… Love you love.

Copenhagen to Cape Town

2010-08-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

Glad to hear that my paper boat is still continuing a successful sail to places with the message of global warming scenario. The film is on its way to Cape Town, South Africa. To be honest with you, until the film won the prize at Copenhagen Climate Change conference, I was never been an environmentalist - though I was always been an admirer of nature. It did hurt me a lot when the trees were cut down at G.N Chetty Road, T-Nagar in Chennai city where I was working. I have experienced the impact of trees on the atmosphere just by living in MCC during summer. The climate inside the 365-acre forestland where Madras Christian College stands is much different when compared to the city outside the campus, during peak summer. The very moment you step into the campus there is a peaceful chillness that gets sucked into your spine and if it is windy, it will give you Goosebumps.

While doing the film, I never thought that the film could have this reach to these many hearts with the message, we believed in. Thanks a ton for the cast and crew for the support and the 1minutetosavetheworld team for taking it to places. The latest news I received from the team is that ‘My Paper Boat’ is on its journey to Africa. The film is now selected as the opening film at Southern Youth Film Festival at Cape Town, South Africa. I will also be performing a different task in my life that I have never done before - being one among the judges for the film competition for this year by www.1minutetosavetheworld.com .Hoping to witness some fantastic films in a third persons eye.

After getting a job !

2010-08-18T13:17:00.000-07:00

....now I am waiting to a buy a new camera to do high quality film ‘After Getting a Job’...

Sailing with Skimstone

2010-08-01T05:54:00.001-07:00

Precious Rubbish

2010-07-25T09:12:00.000-07:00

I was involved in this film by best friends Claire and Pete of Skimstone studio with young people of Newcastle since March’10. What makes me happy about this is film is the way I was adopted by everyone as a part their family here… Now I truly feel Newcastle another home. So much of love in life… Hugs to you all. U taught me what is precious and what is rubbish too… :P The film was a brilliant new learning experience. Lessons I learnt from this set of first time filmmakers are definitely something no film school in the entire world can offer me. I bet, no film professional can teach me the same too. This film is an example of what can happen if a set of people joins hands to create a film purely out of passion and nothing else.

Precious Rubbish tells stories of several journeys of self-discovery through experiences of pain, happiness, despair and hope and explores the universal themes of life such as loss, sorrow, love, confusion, bullying and friendship. This is about identifying the precious rubbish in us. Precious Rubbish consists of beautifully shot, photographed and performed artworks by young actors, photographers and film crew in a four centuries old house in Westgate Road, Newcastle upon Tyne and other locations around the city. This project has enabled eighteen young people to work towards their national Arts Award.

Along with the film we had the photo exhibition of ‘Precious Rubbish’, and a special space for people to share their ‘precious rubbishes’ in life. Well, I too have one special 'precious rubbish' to put in – Cockroach in Cocktail and a favourite pic.

At a stage of life losing my trust in myself and world, this film and the crew came as a boon, supported me in a lot of ways in identifying the lost me. Ironically, I felt, the concept 'Precious Rubbish' created by the young people had so much to speak to me and my life too... In one of the hot seating sessions, when we asked the question to each other on what is that annoys us the most, I had this answer that I hate looking at the mirror coz my own eyes keeps haunting me as someone else and that I feel my face is not mine anymore...

After these many months, I have now identified 'the precious' in my life. I guess I love my life more sincerely, with a lot of romance and courage. The face that reflected the phase of pain, anger, frustration etc... was such a fake one that had no meanings to it. Two days back, in a funny mood, I changed the status message in Facebook to - I Scream, You Scream and We all Scream for Ice Cream... remembering the famous dialogue by Roberto Benigni in the film Down by Law. In seconds I got comments and messages form all my good friends - "Thank God, u r back. :)"

I now knows what my dear ones like me for and expect from me, and promise I am there screaming "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice scream." Cheers. Love you. Hugs. You made me realise that there is something 'Precious' in 'Rubbish' too...

Down by Law - I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream

2010-07-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream

Validation

2010-07-22T09:00:00.001-07:00

Eric & Me

2010-07-10T11:22:00.000-07:00

I met Eric yesterday again. He was always been there, silently standing at all complex-complicated-corners of life, in his branded way of weirdness and wisdom. He thus successfully surprised me again… driving me dive deep in between dilemma and divinity.

I was on my way to attend a meeting with a few artists from North East at the office of Northern Rock Foundation, situated at a place called Gosforth in Newcastle. Even though the exact address was safe in hand - written so neatly on a piece of paper - true to my cranky intelligence I took the exact opposite direction immediately after getting down from the Metro train at South Gosforth station. Again ‘true to my nature’ I was pretty sure inside that the direction could be wrong and I had to reach the meeting arena fast. I showed the address to a lot of people whom I met on the roadside but nobody seemed to have an idea about it. It was at this point I met Eric again.

I saw that middle-aged white man in his shabby overcoat and torn out shorts, knelt down at the footpath on roadside - busy picking up waste papers and plastic covers, filling the sack kept on his side. I didn’t see him carefully when I actually called him for his attention. As he turned back and looked at me with a blank face and an almost ‘cruel-drunken’ eye, an alarm rang on my head and I felt I was doing a mistake. May be, all those words Charles Dickens used to describe Fagin of ‘Oliver Twist’, could suit him well. Instead of walking back I looked deep into his eyes and repeated my question. He nodded his head as if he didn’t hear me and I repeated. He kept doing the same action for 3 more times freaking me out as if making a fool of me and all the 3 times I kept looking more seriously, repeating my question. The fifth time he just caught my hand so rudely and pulled me across the road. In a rough shivering voice he said, “I don’t know anything. But I will take you to someone who knows.”

As we were crossing the road, he did something yet more strange and mad. Right in the middle of road he stopped and bent down without even bothering the fast moving cars, just to pick up a chocolate cover and throw it in his sack. Four-five cars had to wait for us and the drivers kept looking out so rudely. Though I had no idea on things, I was clear something interesting going to happen. He dragged me towards the nearby street and straight to a place where I saw the notice board- ‘Meditation Centre’. The moment he pushed open the door, the guy who was in charge of the space came running shouting ‘Out, out…Go out please…” My friend very politely passed the sheet of paper to him and said, “Please help him. He is in a hurry.” That man invited me alone into the meditation centre, shutting the door in front of my friend and whispered with a 'polite' smile, “So sorry, Eric is a trouble.” He carefully looked into the address and explained me the direction as I walked around the meditation space.

When I came out Eric was there on the roadside, in the same posture busy in his own world. With some authority I patted on his shoulder, smiled and said load, “Thanks Eric, I got my direction right.” Eric turned his eyes up so seriously and replied in a rough tone, “Good…good…but, are you sure? Do u want me to come.” (As if he knows the way). As I nodded ‘no’ he blabbered something. I sat beside him and asked, “What did you say?” He said so seriously, “You are not smiling. This is not smile.” and bent down continuing what he was doing. I became more curious. Disturbing his job I asked again, “How do you know?”. He said, “coz…..it makes me sad.”. The way he said that like a little boy made me laugh again. I gave him a tight hug on his shoulder and shouted in his ears, “Thankkkkk uuuu soo much Mate… You are smart.”

For my surprise Eric was equally surprised and smiled at me opening his mouth wide open showing his teeth. He said, “People are idiots. They dirty this place. I need to clean it all alone. Okaay… You go… Now you knows right way.”

While walking away, I turned back to have a quick look at him. He was in his own world, blabbering something to himself… may be busy cleaning the world...

That was not the first time I met Eric. He was always been there through out my life, popping up at all confusing corners. He always puts me a state of dilemma - at the same time, sharing a sense of divinity. I don’t know whether any of you have ever met Eric. In my childhood Eric saved me from drowning in a pond. Eric invited me to Hyderabad and study there. Eric was an auto driver once, who picked me up in the middle of riots during the time of a festival in North India. He came as a wave, bounced over an unexpected sand barrier and touched my feet at Marina Beech giving me a new life. Here in Newcastle he hugged me as a young girl who calls me ‘Dad’ and a young boy becoming my brother, giving me new relatives. Eric was always been my alter ego at another corner of world.

Eric is someone who dares to hold my hand with an authority, like my parents, sister or that best friend from MCC. They never use to care what I think or the world think, but intrude into my life with a sense of authority. Not many people had shown such an authority on me. I remember liking my girl so much while we were video chatting, when she suddenly asked me whether the bag hanging behind me was a lady’s bag. That was her way of saying, “Hey, you are mine.” I care for that friend form MCC who disturbed me while I was doing an urgent graphic design. I then shouted at her. But immediately after getting out of the computer lab I held her hand in my hand, silently promising to be her best friend for lifetime. It is actually a secret pleasure when someone shows that authority; it means they do care for you a lot. Those people do leave a mark in life. You may even shout back at them, or hurt them… but cannot ignore them when they need you. Life is all about living it happily, knowing and forgetting some nightmares. Eric told me.

Eric is not that selfish someone who just walks with you like a tourist guide all the time showing you directions to all that is beautiful, but he is some one who appears only at crucial points and show you the real path forward, or at least take you to those safer hands who can show you the path forward. He never bothers to look at what you might think or what the world thinks when he grab your hand without your permission. He might rudely push you across many roads of life not even looking you or the fast moving cars… and the fake people inside and around. I felt bad for not taking a photograph of Eric with my mobile cam, but then I imagined him framed on the walls or hanging on the cross. It was annoying…

The last word Eric told me as I walked in my assured ‘right’ path was his 'silence'.

Parijaatham

2010-07-07T09:50:00.000-07:00

During our childhood days my sister and I used to go for Hindi tuition class at an Ashram (monastery) situated right behind our house. I have already mentioned about Swamiji - Swami Prushothamanada - in most of my blogs. He still remains the most influential person in my life and the only one who is my 100% Guru. He was the most stubborn and strong person I have ever met in my life. Can call him a true Gandhi at thoughts and Hitler at action. He was my grandpa’s most intimate companion since his childhood days. He was an army man, a scholar and a dedicated teacher before joining Ramakrishna Mission as a saint. More than the Hindi lessons, what we enjoyed the most was his style of teaching, flavoured and garnished by his personal experiences - explaining even the most complicated topics with a sense of creative energy and enthusiasm. We liked to hear about his term as an Army man working at the most difficult highland border regions of India and China. This space won’t be any bit enough to fit in all that I need to talk about him. I truly wanted to be a saint like him exactly the way as he was – a rough and tuff Sanyasi. I may have such a future, I leave it for the time to decide. In this blog, I would like to share thoughts about a Parijatham tree. (I don’t know what is it called in English.)

A lot of memories just rushed into my mind and I cannot be but write about it before saying anything about Parijatham. I guess I need to shift my bit about of Parijatham to the end of this article. Let me just talk a little about those tuition classes. It is my ‘memories of’ and ‘testimonial for’ a few people whom I cannot forget here. The HIndi lesson used to happen in the afternoon around 3 pm. The first thing we both had to do was to wake up Swamiji from his mid-day nap. Most often we used to find him snoring to glory with his mouth mildly open. The very moment our voice reached him...‘Swamiii…’, he used to wake up... quickly hunting for his thick spectacles all around the bed with his hands. Only after they get neatly chaired on his nose, he could bring himself back to real senses.

It was Swamiji who forced my dad to make us appear for the Hindi exams by Dakshin Bharath Hindi Prachar Sabha. In order to make us attend the lessons he used to lure us with Pico classic comic books. Everyday he used to take us to the library and share his treasure of comic books right after the session. Most of them were pictorial books on international classics like Wuthering Heights, The Hunchback of Notre dame, Moby Dick', The Black Beauty, Time Machine etc. We had another reason to attend those sessions - a mulberry plant that grew at the compound of ashram. Through out the session I used to have my eyes stuck on the red-black mulberries. The days I was so desperate for them, I used to make reasons like ‘I am thirsty, I want to pee etc... etc...’ and go out quiet-quick to pluck a few mulberries. I used do a lot of harmless adventures those days. The best of it could be intruding into a local temple in the afternoon without anyone’s knowledge and lifting the sacred sword of ‘Velichappadu’ (the God Man), on my way back from the school after the mid-term exam. Interestingly the Lord Ayyappa blessed me with better marks for mathematics that time as if he knew I was just curious to lift that sword and play with it for a while. Anyway, Swami was not as kind as Lord Ayyappa. He caught me once red-handed. I do mean it. It was right in both literal sense and true sense - my hands were actually red coz of the juice that oozed out of blood-red mulberries.

On certain days the lessons used to be quite exhaustive. We had a few interesting people who saved us on many such occasions. They were Swamiji’s visitors who preferred to come exactly on the time of our session in spite his strict order of not coming at that time. They used to just pop in form nowhere and spend a lot of time talking mostly nonsense, they genuinely believed as total sense. But Swami used to respond to them the same manner yet holding up a serious face true to his brand image as of a Hitler. He used to shout at them, blame them... order them...!!! Still they kept coming on almost every alternative day from nowhere. Now you must be curious to know who they were. As I said earlier, they were our saviours – A hunch back old woman who lived with the little wage she gained by making flower garlands for a local temple and a mentally retarded Christian boy named Jacob. In the entire world Swamiji might be the only one who could talk to them so well, and for that reason we too. Initially we were so scared of Jacob whom we met almost everywhere falling from 'just' nowhere, until we started interacting with him in those tuition classes. Afterwards Jacob started recognising us and sometimes walked with us on our way back from school.

I now realised that I have not many facts to say about our Parijatham. But I consider it as one of the most precious gift of God that I do cherish. It helps me recollect all those moments about Ashram, Swamiji, the Hunch Back woman, our friend Jacob etc. I don’t think there is anything as precious as memories in this world. Good or bad, they remains my treasure. You must be wondering 'from where' does a Parijatham come in to this story, that I titled as Parijatham itself and didn’t say a word yet...

There used to be a Parijatham tree that stood tall close to my favourite mulberry plant at the compound of Ashram. During the season the flowers bloomed, the fragrance filled the whole area around the Ashram. The tiny white parijatham flowers used to cover the soil underneath the tree and a lot of them used to travel with the wind to our table. On one such day my sister Athira and me took a stem of the tree with us while returning back home. Together we planted it carefully on the compound of our house near the kitchen. I remember a few people saying that Parijatham should not be planted on the premises of house as it is a sacred tree.

Today that little stem had grown even bigger than the two floored structure of our house. Last time when Athira and me were there 'together' at home, 'TOGETHER' we touched the branches of Parijatham that covered a small portion of our terrace. Through her kitchen window, my mother had seen that tiny plant growing up to such a height since the time we planted it. Mother had seen us growing up… and the tree too... growing much taller than us. Parijatham still do shower her tiny little flowers into Mum’s kitchen with the help of wind every year. It thus do fill our compound with a lot of memories, as Dad says. I was never been at home continuously for more than two months after my Pre-Degree (12^th). My sister too keeps shuttling between places. But our Parijatham was always been there beside my mum on every single day of her life with so many precious memories about us. I guess those tiny white flowers and the fragrance are the most precious gift Athira and I could give to our parents. As dad says, they are tiny sweet memories… of our childhood.

Blues on.. my Purple Blue …

2010-06-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

“Why not that green one, I have always seen you going for green shades?” my friend asked in surprise, for that I replied “Green is my favourite colour, but I don’t know…I just liked her this way, cladded in Purple blue, blue being her identity… and I feel she is the only one who has a personality in this entire space...” It took only seconds to make that choice… and take her with me to the hostel room.

No need to confuse! Both of us were not talking about girl friends… This talk happened many years back near my college campus in Chennai, at a shop that sold fishes and aquarium… It was about my purple blue fighter fish. While my friend took an hour deciding on his favourites and finally brought half a dozen gold fishes, I was waiting at the teashop sipping hot tea in front of Selaiyur IOB bank holding a small bowl with my only fighter. Almost two three years later someone looked into my orkut profile and laughed at the statement that my ideal match is ‘a purple blue fighter fish”, for that I replied “I’ll be insulting myself in case I still think… if she is a purple blue fighter...”

I had never seen a woman like her. She was really tuff to understand… With her sharp eyes winking every single second, and the wide purple blue wings waving in a poetical passion she always proclaimed her rule. She cared a lot for her lone little space … that she cherished like a queen. I never talked much to her to make her feel that way, her freedom and comfort… as if I am not even bothered about her. Her individuality had all the shades that matched any rainbow. I could never stand those colours to get faded away like those rainbows becoming ‘yesterday’s illusion’, as she been my only ‘silent’ solution then. It was a great feeling watching her silently, during tensions of assignments and projects during college days. In no time, I used to get boosted with so much of energy and enthusiasm.

I was never been so addicted or attracted to any of those light hearted gold fishes, the little angels, guppies, black mollies or the sharp sharks that lived in groups. None of them seemed to have any sense of individuality or love for freedom. I couldn’t even differentiate one gold fish from another in the aquarium and thus they failed to create any fascination in me. But the very moment I looked at the lone lady fighter, as the glare of light hitting the bowl, I saw my own face reflecting on its smooth sides of the glass. Thus she and her lone little space became a part of my paradise - Room no.169, Heber Hall. At times I used to imagine myself to be her partner, diving into that bowl and swimming smoothly holding her tight.

At the aquarium they asked me not to touch any fish with hands while taking them out for changing water, pebbles, shells etc. But I always preferred to lift her with my own hands so softly; with utmost care coz I never trusted the sharp edges of the net. Moreover I hated the fact that the water always drained out while lifting a fish with the net, leaving them suffocate for some time. She, my fighter, was so cosy in the very little water I held in my palm while taking her out. More over she seemed to understand that I wouldn’t hold her for long like that, but leave her free… back in her free space.

Unlike other fishes she was never been so restless swimming so aimless like mad. She liked to stand at one place quietly for long time waving her purple blue skirt, deep in some thought, turning eyes in all directions watching her territory with utmost care. Her swim was more poetical and musical. It always matched with the music from my computer speakers. Moreover I have noticed her staying close to the speakers. She never liked any ‘hide and seek’ business and naturally never hid herself under the shells or pebbles. She didn’t seem to enjoy going to the bottom of the bowl. She used to come up so close and grab her food from my fingers touching the surface of the water.

Once my friend left a gold fish with her, to see her behaviour. That handsome boy (almost three times the size of my fighter girl) was chased all around the bowl up-down, left-right, top-bottom, north-south, east-west…in all possible vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines and circles - until we both felt so bad about him and took him out of the bowl. He was so tired and suffocated… taking deep breaths through his gills - almost out of his freaking mind. When we left him back in his aquarium, it was horrible to watch his weird disabled way of swim, as if he had forgotten how to swim. My purple blue girl was still relaxed as if nothing happened, quietly doing the salsa in the same poetical pattern, turning her head in all sides, winking her beautiful eyes with the rhythm of music.

She was a real tuff woman to handle, whom I respected a lot. I had to change water only twice a month for that small bowl that didn’t even have any artificial air pipes. She could live without any nourishment for two weeks long. I never had to be bothered about her when I had to go for vacations or project works. If it was for a longer vacation at my home in Kerala, I used to carry her with me in the train. She was such a silent girl, who seemed to like the travel in the train. I remember those restless baby rabbits I carried home with me form Hyderabad during my graduation days. Rabbits became a part of my family so well, sharing the same cage with the lovebirds. But none of them were a match for my purple blue. Whenever she came home with me she was treated so precious. She used to get more attention than me, from my parents and sister.

She was the only one that looked good on me. It was painful losing her. But then one day I realised that her dreams were beyond the boundaries of that bowl. One evening when I came back from college she was not there in the bowl. After ten-fifteen minutes of search, I found her near the door. It was so painful to see her so badly wounded and completely covered by dry dust. I washed her carefully and left her back in the bowl. She was just amazing…beyond imagination. From that critical condition she regained her strength spreading her wings wide. The obvious wound marks got covered by fresh new purple blue scales in two weeks.

You guys can call me cruel or selfish. Even after realizing her urge for more freedom and space, I was not ready to loss her. Many times I took the bowl to the Heber pond thinking of leaving her there, but came back… feeling so insecure about her… She was with me for a longer time, more than the time any of those gold fishes lived in my friend’s aquarium. I have seen him changing fishes many times. But I had only one purple blue fighter till this date. She died…

Fighters are of three colours, green, blue & purple blue. But mine was always that purple blue… with her I always forgot that my favourite colours are the green and the greys… “I never insulted myself by thinking, when I saw my purple blue…”, she still stay with me... in memories...

Animated, Inanimated & Partially Animated

2010-06-26T08:37:00.000-07:00

I don’t know whether he was at the right place or the wrong one when he got that phone call, or whether he started drinking before that phone call or after that. He did react to it exactly the same way I expected. First he decided to throw his mobile off from the cliff and then he thought he should throw himself off. But he didn’t follow either of those instant thoughts but sat down sipping his sixth peg of Gin and Lemonade, smoking the last joint left in his hands.

Joy Kuttan was born as ‘JOY KUTTAN’ for those proud orthodox Christian parents from Kottayam district of Kerala, who believed them to be the successors of one of the disciples of St. George. Unlike the other babies born around the globe at 10.30 AM on 21st Dec 1982, he was considered as a surprise… He surprised everyone by a laugh instead of cry as if he was so excited seeing the first light outside. Doctors claimed that he came out much early too. The next thing he did was winking at the nurse who cleaned him. The priest, Mani Achan, from the nearby church who happened to be there by chance, with all heart, wished him with the name ‘Joy Kuttan’. All the Malayalies thus started calling him ‘Joy Kuttaaaaa….’. For a few years he lived as ‘Baby Boy. Joy Kuttan’. When he once shared screen with Superstar Mammootty for a film as a child actor, his name was scrolled in the credits as ‘Master. Joy Kuttan’. Since then it took many years for him to grow up to the status of Mr. Joy Kuttan.
This is the history, geography and cultural background of this character. I had to stop for a while to clean the utensils in kitchen. While doing that I was thinking on what made him plan his tour in his dirty modified Mahindra Classic Jeep to the suicide point of Kodaikanal from his rich rubber estate in Kottayam… and that too all alone. I really don’t know… may be some kind of instinct. Well, we all do follow instincts! Don’t we? What do you think is the basic instinct behind Cockroach’s plan of writing about one Joy Kuttan in joy that no one seems to enjoy?

Though his intention was not clear, he was obviously not in the mood or the mode of killing himself. But the phone call did knock him down. The intoxication of Gin was so tight too. The phone call could be a rude one, an unexpected one or an unexpectedly rude one… what ever. He smiled at the sky and the dead-end for his jeep and the life, lying down alone at the tip of the cliff. After a while he did something really crazy. Even I didn’t expect that.

He opened his bag and pealed a paper off from the book that first got caught in his hand. (I forgot to say that Joy Kuttan was an avid reader.) It was the first page of ‘Broken Glass’ by African writer Alain Mabanckou where he had written the golden phrase ‘in Africa, when an old person dies, a library burns’. He hardly bothered to read it but scribbled “good bye” on the empty sides of the paper and said this loud in an insanely shivering tone “Thanks for those tiny indecent reasons of your own, that I am on my own from now on.”

In a few seconds, a paper rocket flew up from the suicide point of Kodaikanal. It had no emotions. It sailed in the sky- in the air- so aimlessly. The paper didn’t know the meaning of any African phrase. But it had a rich history of its own. It was once the part of a forest tree at Valayar region in Kerala. The tree was stolen and exported as forest wood, later cut and processed at various places. The paper that became the rocket in the hands of Joy Kuttan was once that portion, thrown as unwanted useless priceless pieces, carried away as waste wood and processed at Punaloor paper mills. A different fate was waiting in the hands of small time printers who sold replica of famous books. It thus became the first page of ‘Broken Glass’ of Alain Mabanckou carrying the famous phrase from Africa for a reader like Joy Kuttan, who never believed in gathering knowledge for big money. As I said earlier, that paper didn’t have any emotions by itself. With the wind it continued its journey towards yet another fate… as it was been always…

Neither the emotional Joy Kuttan nor the emotionless paper rocket found the presence of the third character in this story - ‘Joy Kuttan, The Rocket and Chinnu’. Yes, it is Chinnu, I don’t know her exact name so let me call her Chinnu. Well, we humans have this weird habit of giving names to anything and everything without their permission. (I am thinking of all those pets in our lives – David the dog, Ruby the kitten etc…) For my convenience I am taking the liberty of calling her Chinnu. She was a beautiful black ant, and the queen of her colony. Just like her companions she was living a simple life gathering food and bringing up her children. Her fate was quite simple and certain, until Joy Kuttan threw her into the complex and uncertain. It was not intentional. She was caught in between the gap of the paper rocket.

Chinnu’s colony was very near to the place where Joy Kuttan’s jeep was parked. She was disturbed by the noise of jeep while feeding her children, and thus came out to face the intruder. The tyre of the jeep was very near to her colony. She was not capable to understand what would have happened if it was parked one step ahead. For that matter, she was not familiar about anything else other than her little world around. How many of us actually know the ‘Actual World’? How much of the world can be explored by a small little ant, who has nothing other than a colony that can be placed under the tyre of a jeep, living with less than a hundred adult inhabitants and a probable thirty little ones.

The wind carried Chinnu caught in that paper rocket, to her uncertainty… I can’t explain what was going on her mind during the journey. Being a nonliving object, I am pretty sure that the journey didn’t make any sense for the rocket. But the black ant is a living being capable of thinking. May be she is not as intelligent as a human being, but she definitely had emotions. Chinnu was the protector of her children and her colony too… May be she is a creature not capable of keeping memories on their realities… but she definitely had a reality and the sense of existence.

The paper rocket floated up in the sky like a feather. A lot many times huge birds like the eagles and vultures tried to grab it confusing it to the pigeons and sparrows. But it escaped with the difference in the pressure of wind as they approached each time. Swinging and swaying it took nine days for that rocket to reach the surface of land… a village nearby… but by then Chinnu was dead and dried, stuck to the surface of the rocket…

I did imagine a situation a few years later… One day Annamma Saira Philip who was by then Mrs. Joy Kuttan, discovered a black stain right on the nose of the photograph of famous Dr. Joy Kuttan featured in an article that came in the Sunday Suppliment of Mathrubhoomi Newspaper. There was no more African Phrases by Mabanckou except for an always-dull photo with a black stain on the nose … and the paper didn’t have any emotion to carry by itself…

The Squirrel of Ramayana

2010-06-23T03:36:00.000-07:00

“They say that I am handsome only because of those three white lines. In fact, I haven’t even seen them as they are stamped on my back. To be honest with you, they didn’t make any difference in my life.” The squirrel replied for cockroach’s compliment, munching some cereals scattered on the courtyard.

“Does anyone remember me now? I am the Squirrel of Ramayana,” he continued moving around in a hurry as if he has just one more day to live. Cockroach looked surprised at his antics, with his mouth wide open.

“For many centuries I walked through the pages of Ramayana, as told by the saint Valmiki. I had grown old now. Still remember that day so fresh in my eyes.” He wiped his face with his tender hands, shaking his body cleaning the grains caught in the grey coat of thick fur. “I guess, the Lord noticed me only because of this habit. I was just helping him to build a bridge over the sea. Saw him so much in pain, missing wife Sita.”

“It was a rainy day in the forest. I woke up listening to a buddy bird chirping loud the news of some monkey’s march to the beach. I was so deep in sleep coz of the routine tiring day gathering food for dear little ones and my sweet heart. In sleep I didn’t even realize the heavy rain that socked me deep in. The whole forest was coloured green and grey with the water splashing from leaf tips and tree branches. Sunlight was struggling to find the way in through the dense green layer that protected us like a mother. Yet a few beams intruded into our world through hollow hallow spaces, blessing us with another new day of action and passion.”

“I shook my body to get rid of the water stuck to the skin. A few drops thus fell into my mouth. That day- for some crazy reason- the rainwater tasted salty like tears. Was the sky kept weeping for someone?”

“Curiosity is my colour by birth. True to that nature, I couldn’t resist the instinct. Rushing through the wet slippery branches I found my way targeting the seaside. I was new to those parts of the jungle and hence a bit scared about the owls and eagles possibly hiding here and there. Each day someone among us needed to be sacrificing our lives being the meal of their children. Now that is the general rule of the jungle, a city dweller like you might not understand.” The squirrel looked at cockroach, “It is all about sustaining the cycle of life and protecting a precious specious.”

“As I moved on, the appearance of the land and trees changed. Instead of monstrous ones like the bearded Banyan tree or the perfumed Jackfruit tree, there were more palms and coconut trees revealing the fact that I am quite nearer to the sea. In a few hours, along with the sound of rain, I heard the cry of monkeys in the air. Whether it is talk or action, no one can be as good as the monkeys. They were considered to be the most restless beings in our forest. But hardly anyone understood their talks; interestingly they themselves did’t seem to have any clue of their own conversations. Whatever ill we say, its them who had the will to support the Lord in his pain and thus the mission.”

“I reached the last layer of trees right near the beach. Sitting on top of a huge coconut tree I had an aerial view of the land underneath. I must say I had never seen anything like that before; it was stunning. As I told you, the monkeys were naturally active, but I had never seen them that active ever before. On the vast sand of the beach, in that continuous rain of agony, they were so busy in building the bridge across the sea. The whole monkey population was there including the old and the little ones; even the young elegant pregnant ladies to the ones who already had their babies hanging on their shoulders. On the extreme end of the beach I saw the Lord. He was obviously dull with the pain reflecting in his eyes. The birds were right; he looked so incomplete without his woman. For that matter, any man is incomplete without his woman by his side. Only the luckiest ones could have a good fate. Sita was still the part of his body and mind. The sea could be a physical barrier, but it couldn't be capable to fence their hearts. I knew the whole story about him and Sita from the gypsy migratory cranes that often visited the pools inside our forest. They all were philosophical in their talk because of genuine knowledge and understanding of the world. An old crane once told me that even the Gods needed to undergo the same struggles as of any other being, being a part of the living world. Hence Rama, the Lord too…”

“Among the monkeys I couldn’t identify most of the faces. But I recognized the monkey hero of the forest Hanuman and the leader of the lot, Sugriva. Without any sense of hierarchy they all were equally involved in sharing the tasks, carrying big rocks, sand etc for the construction of the bridge. The passionate engineers among them worked out many brilliant options to get it done fast. I heard that the big monkeys had to consult with the craftsmen of the jungle, the red ants and spiders, on tips for construction.”

“Immediately, a sense of responsibility stuck my mind and I crawled down the tree and ran across the sand towards the plot. I knew that they still needed more people, and I thought I could be of some help. I carried some sand in my hands and walked towards the bridge along with the other monkeys. They were all so involved that they didn’t realise me walking underneath. I had to really struggle between their massive inconsistent leg movements. As I threw the sand, I understood that it is too less compared to the huge sacks carried by the monkeys.”

“My little hands didn’t help me much. I had do something else. Probably that was the only moment in life I actually looked at my size. I wish I had bigger hands and body like them. While looking on my body, an idea flashed in. In the rain I was wet… I also had so much fur on my skin. Now that could work. I didn’t think much but followed my intuition plunging into the seawater from the bridge. Then swam back to the beach, twisted and turned on the sand, so that the it got stuck on my wet fur. It did work, my entire body including the face was covered by sand in seconds.”

“I then walked towards the bridge. Over there I shook my body, so that the whole sand falls on the bridge. It was quite a good plan and I felt so proud of myself. Yet deliberately, didn’t look at any monkey’s contribution. I knew that mine wouldn’t match them. I didn’t want to get beaten by that complex. So consciously avoided them and continued with what I was capable of. So many plunges in sea water… so many times crawling on the sand… so many times carrying the sand on my body to the bridge… the day just went on, busy on the task.”

“There was so much of energy and enthusiasm among the monkeys, that oozed into my mind too. We all had only one aim and one heart. Slowly, I somehow felt equal to them. I saw all of them, but no one seemed to have noticed me. I was even faster in my movements. In the time a monkey carried his sack of sand to the bridge, I almost finished with three of my rounds.”

“I didn’t even realize the passing time… I guess no one did, but the sun god was done with his ride in the sky for the day and was ready to hide himself in the sea. The horizon lost the blue, turning it red orangey.”

“I felt someone’s hand on my back and in no time I was lifted up from the ground. I shivered in shock. It was definitely not the catch of an owl or an eagle. A few among us who had narrow escapes from the clutches of the owl, had already explained to me how it felt on their skin. I was held so smoothly in the air. Ironically, the alarming shiver of my body changed to a sense of weird security in those hands. But still I was unable to look back and see the one who lifted me.”

“I felt the touch of another hand, with the fingers slowly moving on my back. A touch of care, love and gratitude… I closed my eyes for a moment. It was like seeing the whole world coming into me and me dissolving in the world. All the uncertainties became certain… all the questions changed to answers… I saw my little ones chirping and playing on my body; I felt my sweetheart’s breath on my chest. I realised that they are my world and I am for the world. My duty is to make my family happy... My duty is to make the world happy…”

"The tender hands that held me up, left me down too. As I touched the soil, my mind returned back to the reality of life - being the same little squirrel, crawling on trees, gathering food for children and loving his woman. The Lord did his duty to his parents, wife and the world, living as a normal human being experiencing all the struggles common for mankind.”

“They say that I got the three white lines on my back by the touch of his fingers. I had never seen the Lord close; I had only experienced that smooth soothing touch. Well, those three lines didn’t make any difference in my life. As the visionary gypsy crane said I am born in this world for that experiences of life, both the good and the bad - simple and straight. The Lord himself had to undergo all those hardships!”

“Centuries passed and I am still the same little squirrel of Ramayana… doing all that I am capable of doing. You are right Cockroach; I live as if I have only one more day to live.” He jumped over the fence of the courtyard and vanished in the green, just like any other squirrel.

Crime and Punishment

2010-06-19T04:39:00.000-07:00

Who am I? I wonder what so many writers did to me. Whenever I talk, write or make a film to the world I feel myself being Raskolnikov of Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, bending down on his knees to the street prostitute Sonia and doing his confessions. Well, what is the difference between Raskolnikov and me, the world and Sonia. World is like that prostitute busy earning for her basic living, selling her skin and I am probably the same young-man lying down drunk in the gutters without drinking in a state of trans. Writer Permbadavam Sreedharan, in his Malayalam novel ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’- about the most stressful and romantic chapter of Dostoevsky’s life - called him ‘Hrudayathil Daivathinte Kayyoppulla Ezhuthukaran’ (The writer who has the signature of God on his heart). While reading every single word of Fyodor I still do confuse whether he had written it with ink or his blood. Reading him is like watching a sincere cinema.

I read the first copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ from library, when I was in 8^th standard. Ended every single chapter with a tear in my eyes and naturally developed an addiction to the writer giving him a status equal to the God. One day my father gave me a gift - Perumbadavam Sreedharan’s ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Pole’. Sreedhran, himself confessed that it was his dream to write about Dostoevsky and the chapter and plot he adapted for this fiction was dusted, crafted and touched with a lot of love and care. Naturally it was a winner and thus, to date, it is the most selling novel in Malayalam. I remember reading that book like a bible. In Dostoevsky I experienced all of his characters. In a way, he was also a Raskolnikov busy doing his criminal confessions through his characters. I can’t forget. There was a beautiful moment in life, almost equal to a dark evening at Marina beech at a later point in life. A few days after I finished reading ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’, I got a prize from Mr. Sreedharan for a short story competition conducted by culture centre ‘Mela’ in my hometown. I didn’t know whom or how to thank for that, at that little age. Life’s joyful miracles… I do cherish. Both ‘Crime and Punishment’ and ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’ I still keep close to soul.

Somerset Mougham once called Emily Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ equal to a bible. He also had ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ of Dostoevsky among the ten must-read books before you die.

I almost lost the flare of reading now, but the ones I read in my childhood are so fresh in heart, whether it is poems, short stories or novels. I used to read poems of Chinua Achebe, Sarojini Naidu and Wordsworth with a lot of love. More than just reading, I liked reciting poems like Naidu’s ‘Palanquin Bearers’ and Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’ in a musical note while swinging and walking with my sister to the school. I liked acting as Watson of Sherlock Holms, coz according to me he is the luckiest man on earth for having the detective as his friend. I had a huge collection of Holms images and articles about him.

It was the same with Malayalam literature. While Vailappilli’s ‘Mampazham’ made me cry, Irayimman Thampi’s lullaby gave me sound sleep. I wanted to travel with S.K Pottakkadu to the Nile River to see crocodiles and Hippos. Another book I have read umpteen numbers of times is P. Narendranath’s ‘Parayi Petta Panthirukulam’, because that used to be my mother’s favourite. While my father is a man prefer staying outside home busy working in farm, my mother remains an avid reader. I really don’t know whose gene is more powerful in me.

While listening to Hindi lesson’s by Swamiji, I had this fascination to short stories in hindi literature too. Interestingly I read most of Tagore’s stories like Kabuliwalah in Hindi. But it was nice listening to Swamiji narrating those stories and poems, because he always used to combine his experiences as a military man in north, literally visualising the landscapes there. He used to recite Harivamsa Rai Bachan's classic poems the same way he sung Kabirdas, Soordas and Thulasidas.

Other than the Godly figure Dosthovisky, there are a few writers whom I guess I could relate more than anybody else… whom I could feel free to talk … whom I could have had some kinda personnel connection, may be like my grandpa or grandmom. They are Kunjunni Mashu, Ruskin Bond, R.K. Narayan and Kamaladas. More than their stories I liked listening to the voice of Kunjunni Maashu and Kamaladas, their interviews in TV. They are full of enthusiasm, love and passion. I was not in Kerala when both of them died. I happened to hear about their death much later through friends and Internet. Felt like I lost connection with the world for hours. Those were the people whom I wanted to stay with me till I die speaking to me, the reality of life mixing with the fantasy of life. True dreamers… people who were so open at heart going to any extend talking without any masks on their faces, living according to their intuitions... and imaginations... simple and straight.

Love for Ruskin Bond and R.K Narayan started since I saw serial Malgudi Days and a Doordarshan serial on Ruskin Bond. I could somehow feel their personal presence so deep in me. One of the most powerful write-up I read is Narayan’s ‘Next Sunday’, where he had broken down the barriers of fiction and non-fiction, speaking spontaneously on autobiographical style and a unique treatment leaving you laughed, surprised, tensed as well as excited… something beyond all genres. You will laugh if I say that I tried to act as a blind man imagining a similar situation as that of Ruskin Bond’s ‘The girl in the train’ (I have seen the same story with someother title, not sure). This is one story that I always wanted to film ever since I started learning the art of filmmaking. Still confused about the treatment to be used and the perspective to be identified.

I am not forgetting any other revolutionary writers whom I respect a lot like O Henry, Paulo Coelho, M.T. Vasudevan Nair, V.T, Lalithambika Andarjanam, Balamani Amma etc. Writing a novel like Andarjanam's 'Angnisakshi' is not a joke during that era in Kerala. I once argued that an MBA lesson is incomplete without teaching 'Animal Farm'. But then literature is an ocean, where I used to dive deep and now almost lost even the talent to do a surface swim. Just remembering the number of sharks, piranhas, angelfishes, octopuses and dolphins I have met in those dives in my childhood… remembering the oysters and pearls I have collected in those adventures…

Today I feel myself standing at the beech looking at the waves… at times scribbling on the sand about those adventures... so aimlessly...

Demon & the Mermaid

2010-06-17T04:10:00.000-07:00

Grandpa’s bedtime tales used to be mesmerising chapters of the epics Ramayana and Mahabharatha. Nesting our heads on his white hairy chest my cousin and me used to dream about the legendary jump of majestic monkey God Hanuman over the sea to Lanka overthrowing the obstacles caused by sea serpent Surasa and the monstrous mountain Minakam. Imaginations on mystic mythical beings are wild and vibrant since then. During the school days Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey gathered from the dusty old cupboard of Swamiji taught me how to ride on centaurs, dragons and unicorns too. No intention to compete with Vyasa, Valmiki or Homer…Framing neither an epic saga nor a fairy dairy. This is about the snowy reality of a Demon and a Mermaid, who are alter egos. Epics have quite a lot goons meditating to gain boons for options to hide their souls from jealous gods. This story is about such a demon. Beauty of any fairy tale is that they are the only literature on earth that cannot be questioned.

The demon - a silent creepy little creature - never longed for anything else except for following his devilish intentions and intuitions on his voyage to be a victor of the world. Gods were naturally jealous. Wherever possible they shot sparks of lightning shocks at him creating scars on his body and mind. Interestingly yet ironically they never knew where his life was. He was looked as a nasty being living with a violent heart and silent soul. The demon himself was surprised about his survival each time and the mystery behind his life.

On one of the rides on his centur at the grainy grey beech sand, he found a stained bottle caught in the net with an unclear message wrapped inside. The centur read it clearly to him. He discovered the sign of a mermaid living many oceans away who seemed to have written it. When the demon placed the bottle on salty water, a glimpse of her beautiful body reflected on the sides of the bottle smiling at him and in seconds it flowed down and dissolved in the shallow waters of the ocean. Demon immediately muttered a message in the ears of centurs and asked him to ride over the oceans and find her. Wagging his tail the centur jumped over the waves and raced on the ocean surface. It took many months for him to come back. But what he got with him was a visage filled with tiny drops of kisses by the Mermaid.

The next time when the Gods shot a lightning at the Demon, he fell deep into the seawater sinking down to the unknown in an unconscious state. The salty water entered into his ears and revealed the truth and mystery behind his life. The Demon heard the mermaid’s laughing voice echoing vague with the ripples hurrying to escape from the water. The visage of kisses opened and they covered all over his body, like tiny little fishes of rainbow colours. The streaks of light peeped in from the sky through the water scattering over the scales of the fishes. The demon felt the kiss of mermaid on his lips. He held her tight to his body and kissed behind her long neck. Her naughty golden hairs covered his face and the rosy lips whispered this, “ Your soul is safe in me, millions of oceans away. It is not for the Gods…”

As he opened his eyes lying at the grainy sands of the beach, to the beautiful red sun sailing high in the sky, many oceans away the murmur of his soul melted on her lips. Listening to her words drafted in an echo of laughter he stood high on the sand taking a deep breath of chill salty sea wind. While he exhaled, he whispered a name… Only the centur heard it… and kept it a quite secret in his heart.

A fairy tale cannot be questioned… until it is an experience. Grandpa never said this to me… but life did…

Karna Motcham - Incarnation of Karna

2010-06-16T04:27:00.000-07:00

An amazing film I saw yesterday that made me realize how fake my films are in concepts and treatment. Karna Motcham is an award winning short film about a Theru-Koothu Artist and his one-day life in Chennai. Screenplay written and Directed by S.Murali Manohar, Story, Dialogues by Writer S.Ramakrishnan. This short film have won more than 60 awards including National award by Government of India, Tamilnadu Government Best short film, Best Director etc.

This film reminded me of my all time favourite director till date, Im Kwoen-Tak and his films Sopyonje and Chi Hwa Seon - Painted Fire. His films has volumes on his own land, the people, history, culture, traditions, geography, climatic conditions…etc… While Sopyonje says the story of the life of a performer of Korean traditional folk form Panasori, The Painted Fire is about a traditional Korean Calligrapher Owon. In both the films the passion of the artists are shown through every single property and parameter of cinema.

As the film ‘Chi Hwa Seon’ progresses we see the climate of Korean land changing in every scene. It has wide angles of the nature and the Korean land, it has deep emotions, row and natural people, and it has nearly everything that can possibly act as the cultural ambassador of the Korea. The passion of the artist is shown so deep. The calligrapher once break into a house that is in the control of military to make a small correction in his painting, all his best paintings are done as favour for different people including the wife who cheated him, his teacher and friends. In a frame we see a fleet of sparrows flying high in the sky and the shot dissolves to a long calligraphy by the artist who has all those sparrows sketched with perfection. The film Sopyonje used all the similar metaphors possible to symbolise the art Panasori. I cannot forget that long static scene where the Panasori Master and his children singing ‘Aariraari rang Soori soorirang’ and walking across an original Korean Landscape. The scene starts with all the three as small spots at the extreme end of the path and the frame remains static throughout until they sing and come close to the camera and leave. In the theatre I found audience standing and clapping for this single scene. It is the simplest and effective cinematic representation of passion and the film was thus the blood and flesh of the director representing his passion. In my life no other scenes thrilled me as much as this in theatre.

I have seen both these films only once and they are so haunting that I remember every single frame of it so deep in heart. I have a weird way of judging a cinema, which is obviously not the best or the right way. I consider those films that melt in me so perfectly hesitating to get out of memory as my favourite films. While Chaplin remains the role model as a cinematic brand, it is Im Kwoen-Tak who is my ‘complete director’ and thus a target to reach. Both these men are impossible to reach in perfection or style, but I do treat them with at most respect as the Gurus of cinema.

Talking about Chaplin, Im Kwoen-Tak or any of their films is not that easy. I can talk hours and hours about them, why them? Even a single frame in their film itself! There is so much to explore and study in detail.

Coming back to where I started- Karna Motcham. This could be one such film I have seen after a very long time that conveyed the beauty of the geography, culture, emotion etc of a land so perfectly in its concept and treatment. I was so surprised seeing such a film from Tamil Nadu. So thrilled and excited on the possibility of a revival period for good cinema in Tamil. If people are not reaching good cinema, let us take this pledge to take cinema to the people.

Art was, is or will not be a commodity. It is all about creation, innovation, communication, passion and sharing without expectation. Karna Motcham is one such film that should reach people of Tamil Nadu and the world representing Tamil Nadu.