A full half

Half turned pages
Of a half read book
A full night, half spent
A wish half fulfilled
A romance fully wasted.

Jacket

Ek puraani jacket ki pocket
Tatol rahi thhi kayi din baad
Ek dhula huya paanch ka note
Ek mungfali ka adhmara chhilka
Aur ek pichki Mentos 
Lagi kal shaam mere haath
Aise hi beeti thhi pichhli sardi
Garam jeb mein bachi yaadon ki tarah
Kuchh dhundhli, kuchh charmarayi aur thhodi pichki

Please

He had already said no to her. A million times. She wouldn't give up. Kept saying - "Pretty please, with cherry on top, please Papa!"

Weathered

It wasn't misty outside, but her eyes were. She came inside, wiped the slate clean. No mist, no dew, just a scratched black surface.

pH balance

He imagined a life soap operas are made of. He was too lazy to switch channels. But finally the froth settled and he got himself a brainwash.

On the Wall

You could see her body at work on the canvas. 
The sheet had wrinkled in places and the heart was a speck of blue.

Dream sequence

They walked together through the fog. 
It was like a dream sequence from a film. 
Then their vision became clouded.

The last date

He carried the warmth in his heart and love-filled azure eyes.
She was carried by cold feet. 
No, it's not December's fault. 

Poornima

Taaron mein phassa chand
Electrocute bhale ho na ho
Khambe ke sire se latak kar
Jaan deta toh rehta hai...

Ummeed ke sirey se
Raat shabnami lagti hai
Kona pakda angaarey ka
Toh ungli par nami si lagti hai.

curfew

A curfew night
huddled in muffled silences
screaming bodies of pain.

A stone's throw away
a life barbed for life
lies a prison that I didn't make 

I never asked for it
it was not mine
thrust upon my forehead
like a brutal bane.

Blue

In the winter of time
She stood there
Half-naked
Numbed by the cold
And beaten by purpose
What remained
of a life half-led
was just a shade of blue.

Possessed

Looks like I've been possessed today. have been writing since 5am - shot stories, attempts at haikus...
Don't know how these sound, but was fun to write. I am a happier person today :)


1.
A seasoned writer

He turned my pages

Like they were his own

2.

Sun soaked

He just stood there

And I turned cold with sweat

3. 
Regular story-teller
Lonely reader
Decaffineated lover

4.

Tired of the freeze
the summer snowflakes
Flower on a tree


5.
Broken shoes. Rain shower. Can't find mom.

Kinjal

A film about a young school going, 'employed' girl in a working class environment. Raising issues of gender and 'aspiration', the director has used an improvisational film technique to make a reflexive piece of cinema that constantly refers to its own making.

My diploma film

My diploma film set in Madanpur Khadar,a semi-urban settlement on the outskirts of Delhi. The project started with frequent visits to the basti and understanding what young women their wanted. Over a period of 3months, I found that they were going to school not to get an education, but to get a job. Over the next month, I got some of them together and worked on the story of this film. Using elements from popular culture - soap operas, films and a lot of hamming in the acting, I tried to make a film that people in that community would be comfortable viewing and not make it a talk down elitist lecture. I produced it with a no funding at all, but a lot of help from friends. Once the film was ready, one could see the impact it had on the audience. UNFPA bought the film a few months later.

For Sale

This show window isn't the most immaculately or creatively dressed one in the mall. It comes in a casual dress and an 'I don't care what you think of me' window. Some curious onlookers, stop-by, but never buy, others simply opt for the more fashionable Prada window. Then there are some who need a thing or two after the whole mall has closed, and don't have a choice except entering this shop. They enter, they get their stuff, they walk out.


Yes, I am up for sale.

Nirvana

I have finally arrived. In the early hours of this seemingly normal morning, Corporate Nirvana was achieved. No, not in the conference room or on my business phone, but in my very own home. In my sleep. It was a dream come true, but only that it came like a nightmare.

I have had a history log of dreams, and apart from the usual stories of falling and the one where I cannot scream, the nightmare that constantly makes an appearance is the fire dream. As a kid, I had a recurrent dream that the house was on fire and I was running around, getting everyone together and taking them to a safer place. Psychologically, in a condition like this, I was pre-programmed to get people and things most critical to my existence - dad, mom, sis, music system, my happy socks, audio cassette compilations. That is how my mom and dad made me. Love thy parents, care for your sister and never ever forget your music collections. 

Now, few years post the childhood phase, the professional phase enters. The nightmare knocks on the door of my sleep again. It is 4:30am and it began with looking at an installation of a beautiful artwork in acrylic. Lots of colour, lots of crazy art. Its a place that looks like a combo of my school, my college, my home. Except, it is made of hay. Mom, dad, baby sis, tall cousin are with me taking a tour of the fantastic place. Mom decides to rest under one small thatched room, next to an almirah of dried grass. Sitting in shade, sipping lassi, a fire erupts. Yes, they are like stinker e-mails, they come unannounced and then screw you. I put my arm around mom, carried baby sis on my shoulder, beckoned dad and tall cousin to run along....And then darted for my 5kg laptop bag tucked away in the almirah made of dried grass. Yes that's where the fire started. Risked life and limb to pull the bag out, and finally took it to safety. Thankfully, I had put the ipod in the same bag :)

Nylon bouquets

A very important part of becoming a workaholic and staying one is to clearly remember - Never stop and smell the roses. It is the biggest impediment on the road to becoming a work stallion.

Of course, I didn't know that.

So there I was, fooled into a vacation by the rest of the lazy world. And then, it happened - I smelt the flowers, walked on grass, let the wind caress my hair and finally, ...I heard the silence. A cacophony of deadlines, excel sheets, words all muddled up, long range targets and short terms ones... all went kaput into the black-hole of silence. Damn!

Peace.

'Peace who?', I asked this sudden white space.

No answer.

'Peace what...?', I rephrased, just in case it needed a little more respect to get out of its corner office.

No answer still...Wait, did something just waft past me?

It sounded like - 'B-r-e-e-z-e'. I am good at onomatopoeia and can write in rhyme on demand, but what on earth was this? Is peace invisible or is it simply too proud and vain to notice people and thereby, ends up wasting their time, while they could have finished sending off a few e-mails!

Ok, I am going to give it another shot and then if it doesn't work, will send it a stinker.

'Hello, Mr.Peace...Mr.Peace? Do you realise, time is running out? I don't have all day you see...my friends organised a prior appointment with you it seems, and that is why I am here.'...'They do not value time and it looks like you don't as well', I muttered to myself.

No answer again. I just felt a water droplet on my cheeks. Looks like it fell from the sky. I should just turn away and run to an-air-conditioned room. This does look very unnatural, water droplets falling from the sky, making you imagine rain. Bumfarts. Little do they realise, it is not good for the system. Can short circuit the whole system you see.

'I need to run indoors, Mr.Peace. You don't seem worth my time right now. You aren't promising me a corner cabin, a big house, a sedan, a Swiss account or even a ladder to climb up. What do I do with you? Kya karoon main aapka?'

And then it offered me a bouquet of nylon lilies. They will never wilt, never fade. I will never smell them.

Peace has made peace with me.

Guilt

As the 'Things to Do' list gets a life of its own and grows like its on something...24hours doesn't seem like the length of the day I would negotiate with God if I was deciding on the entire scheme of things in the day,month, year system. Each day ends with a stare at the number of things that remain unticked on the list, bleary eyes, a crank in the neck and then some negotiated sleep. An instruction to the body clock to wake up early to finish where I left off before the upper eyelid caressed the lower and said it will never let go. Random eye movement during sleep tries to keep pace with the buzz in the head. Newton Sir, I hate momentum. The good thing is the words in the head crystalise and then I can write this the first thing in the morning. (Those with loving husbands - Beware. Reaching out for the laptop as soon as you wake up, isn't something they appreciate or encourage. If you need to do it, do so at your own Risk) But as this little blurt comes to an abrupt end as I look at the watch, the next emotion I transition to is - Guilt. I still haven't finished where I left off. The day begins with a backlog.

Priorities

Everyday starts with writing down a long list of things to do. At times, the list runs into pages. Apart from serving as a reminder of things to be accomplished in the day, it really is serving as more of a wah-wah list. You look at it, scribble on it in front of a lot of people, strike the ones that are done, write new ones through the day, while others pretend to be in awe of the amount of work you do. It is perfect way of prioritizing the day.

In a recent stint away from the laptop, I discovered that priorities of a workaholic are primarily out of sync with basic human emotions but in perfect sync with misplaced notions that one creates for a living...or for that matter earning a living.

More on this later, right now the clock is ticking and I need to go create my priority list for the day.

an attempt at a definition

A compulsive workaholic, a woman, an Indian, isn't really a healthy mix. But that is what I am...at least as of now. I get worried when I don't get the words right on my script. It pains me when the shot isn't just right, I can't rest if the edit isn't in rhythm...I get sleepless nights, get distracted by twitter, by a song that a friend likes, spend days in guilt of not having given it my all. But what do you do when you have already given a lot and are waiting for the insides to fill up so that you can give up more? Write a blog.