Numbers

Numbers had me fumble

when she told me we were one,

and extended my existence

from a walk to a run.

After that never ever

was I less than two,

No day will pass softly,

I told her, without you.

In the jumbled numbers

I found her to be one with me,

one was two and two were one,

as I could see.

From zero I started counting

and had just reached three

when she ran away,

with my numbers to an infinity

Since then I find her

in every number thrown,

Two are broken, one is gone

and I am less than even alone.

The Shirt

The cloth that hangs,

on the door of my bedroom,

is an anachronism

that once was a fancy shirt;

that once was flaunted;

that once was unbuttoned

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Now has ended its glory, by

a wicked pun played by time

that has left the shirt in tatters,

infested with a nefarious fungus

that slowly reduces its existence

to a nothingness.

The cloth hangs on the door still,

untouched and neglected,

through the brightest of the afternoons,

and through the darkest of the nights,

longing for its lost glory,

longing for another pun

to be played upon it,

longing to be worn again,

and to be frisked and unbuttoned,

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.

The Diatribe

Time is nobody's bitch,

and often anybody's whore.

Caged and tormented like a medieval slave,

and smothered by a million woes,

I lived a week sulking alone.

With sullen eyes I went to work,

in silences elongated by a native pain,

in melodies converted into dirges,

I abused the fuck out of myself,

to nobody's bother.

I was a loner.

A loser. A bastard.

I was the last moment before the sunrise,

waiting for the last tear in my languid eyes.

I was suffocated like a Jew in Warsaw,

and split like two ends of hair,

dissolved in a time-bound misery,

that perhaps, time could only bear.

I hit the walls but whom to blame?

I banged the keyboard but whom to blame?

Blame it on the bastard of the night,

Blame it on my dullness.

Blame it all on her laconic eyes.

Blame it on my shameful self.

Blame it on the reciprocal mistakes,

and on the smiles we did not share,

and on the love that left me alone.

Blame it and just blame it,

and blame more!

This is a blame-game,

and melancholy galore.

No rose blossoms, in this rhyme

no star shines and no moonlight spread,

For this is a diatribe, my love,

and not a fucking serenade.

Just Another Poem

And the flame in the lamp fluttered.

Reflecting in the glass,

of pain and agony,

and a contrasting hope.

A red-lit arena of hollow youngness.

In it, I live many lives.

In it, I search for self.

My wanton ambition,

intercepts my reality,

of darkness and abnegation.

Now, I try to fly.

way, way up high.

I try to fly,

beyond boundaries

that I don't conform to.

A futile indulgence, or

a fierce hunt for nirvana?

What is it?

What is it?

HER

Stolid stones and mundane conversations

have enclosed a finality of time.

She has escaped. From my ego,

through two-faced streets, into

another layer of the universe.

I am split like a bisected earthworm,

into two insignificant selves,

at the wake of a private apocalypse.

I have tamed into normalcy,

like a man with combed hair,

I have no doors open, and

none closed either.

I have no doors at all to see through,

on this hopelessly dull night.

I am the primary agony of my room.

I am annoying like a spelling mistake.

I am a pun on modernity, and a

euphemism for abject pity.

She has faded. Into a distance,

far from my pitiable self, floating

on amicable waters.

I walk like an old man,

looking at stolid stones that

play Gods to weeping worshipers.

I weep too, don't I? I cry dry.

I am caught up,

between several stones and many Gods,

unable to detach myself from any.

Because I weep. Yes, I do cry.

My wired wishes,

have her kidnapped.

I have arcane dreams of her.

They are wild and vivid.

And they have her kidnapped.

But there is no ransom.

She has escaped.

There is no ransom.

She has faded.

There is no ransom.

There is no her.

And I am done. Fuck!

Am I?

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.

Zindagi Milegi Na Dobara - A Commentary

I was 13 when Dil Chahta Hai was released. The movie marked one of the most important stages in my understanding of cinema. It gave me something that I had never seen before. It glorified friendship without romanticizing it, it chose banter and quick-wit over slapstick comedy and told a simple tale of three friends, without being a captive of comedy, romance or any other genres that were prevalent in Bollywood, with such effortless ease and honesty that the movie went beyond what any Hindi film had previously touched, it and remains, to this day, as one of my, if not the, all time favourite movies.

I am not sure if Farhan Akhtar gave us Dil Chahta Hai or Dil Chahta Hai gave us Farhan Akhtar but Hindi film industry would be indebted to both Dil Chahta Hai and Farhan Akhtar for giving it so many things it was deprived of till 2001.

Well, I am undoubtedly a fan of Farhan Akhtar and at the same time have always believed that Farhan could never touch within himself what he did while making that gem of a movie back in the day. However, he has been close to brilliance in Lakshya, experimental in Rock On and acceptable in Don. Zindagi Milegi Na Dobara, the movie this article is supposed to be about, is perhaps the closest he and his sister Zoya have come to the legend of Dil Chahta Hai but the comparison of, and the similarity between, the two movies would be the toughest challenge ZNMD would have to face.

The brilliance of the movie lies predominantly in its gentle character and lovely screenplay. The performances, along with the ravishing locales in Spain, embellish the movie to a spectacle. Farhan Akhtar is spontaneous, funny and a live wire as Imran, Hritik Roshan puts forth the best performance of his life after Lakshya to create an Arjun who is both stylish and materialistic for a reason. Abhay Deol's Kabir is not as fantastic as his other two friends but he adds an element of sobriety that compliments well to the crazy scenes created by the other two leads.

The adventure sports, especially free-falling, are awesome and really enthralling. One of the greatest achievements of the movie is that while the three friends look fascinating together and their humour is of the kind one can easily relate to, their personal stories and troubles - which we can call subplots - are captured with great care and grace. May it be Arjun's silence after meeting a quarantined part of himself after the sea-diving incident or Kabir's memory of a marriage proposal that happened by mistake, all the subplots are respected equally. Yet, the best to me was the one that features Imran's search for his real father. The meeting between Imran and his father Salman (played by Naseeruddin Shah with remarkable grace) is one of the most influential scenes in the movie.

The small flashbacks - a trademark Farhan Akhtar style - are used as effectively as always. Zoya Akhtar extends her talent from Luck By Chance (which itself was a good attempt) to direct with greater freedom. Imran's poetry, written by Javed Akhtar, appears at apt moments and reads very well to the poetic ear. Katrina Kaif looks beautiful as Laila and is marginally better than the dull actor she has usually been. Kalki is decent as Kabir's fiance. The music flows well through the movie. Dil Dhadkne Do and Senorita are particular nice tracks. The effect of Der Lagi Lekin is enhanced by its fantastic timing in the movie. The stallions running parallel to the vintage blue Mercedes seemingly compete with the beauty of the latter in that obscure, surrealistic, extravagant location in Spain.

Overall, ZMND offers a type of sanguinity that it can justify. It is an honest attempt to glorify life without glamourizing it senselessly just like the masterpiece of Dil Chahta Hai was in a certain way. Although Dil Chahta Hai still remains, and perhaps will always remain, the best movie Farhan Akhtar was part of, ZMND can very well come second, and being a Rahul Dravid is no small feat in a system where ranking starts from second.