standing in a sea of cloud

in love
you ask for a photograph
most often
with both of you in it
then a third appears
to take it
with a hesitant smile

you stand with arms around
cheeks touching
outside a church
enveloped in Fall
and an angled evening sun
the Organ plays
with the wedding inside
but you cannot giggle
too loud
for you might disturb
those within
even when the voyeur
suggests cheesy smiles
that would be difficult
without
an accompanying
giggle

wrapped around a bridge post
we twitter thanks to the Troubadour
who gazes wistfully
at the wedding couple
while brushing a dragonfly
off his toupee
and talking about his love
for the sea
and boats
and then
of his forty three year old
girlfriend
who has gone to Vegas
with the girls, while he cycles
across the nether lands

a cow standing in a sea of cloud
in the flat-lands, is his most cherished memory
looking at the picture
finger smudge printed
on the camera's digital back
of our frozen giggles
he shrugs

"you are the only ones
i have spoken to
today"

the Organ's pipes in deep rumble herald rain
over the bridge, we cross, holding hands
as the newly married, screeching tires, clanging cans
wave past
with stretched smiles

the dragonfly distances deviously
to hover follow
the Troubadour's toupee
as he mounts to cycle
under grey dark skies
towards the sea
of cloud, where the cow stands

Ru ba Ru - Jogi

'jogi' can be heard in the background, off the radio, in kulbhushan kharbanda's taxi. he portrays a punjabi taxi driver in bangkok (bkk has about 500,000+ punjabis in diaspora). his character is like Charon and 'jogi' kind of fitted in. i wrote the lyrics in panjabi, much to my family's amusement.

once again, the accompanying visuals on the video is not how it played out in the film.

Ru Ba Ru - Na Dekho

most of my writing tends to be in english; 'na dekho' i wrote (lyrics) in hindustani over two sessions in sameer uddin's studio. we needed a song in the background when randeep and shahana are in the restaurant and sameer and i were pretty much clear we needed a blues/soul track for it. suzanne gave her voice and soul to this song.

the accompanying visual on this video is not how it played out in the film.

Arsonism: Issue 1 Fall 2008: pirated poetry antholgy by Stephen Mclaughlin & Jim Carpenter

a friend of mine pointed me to this (if you click on the title it will take you their site and you can download the pdf): my name appears as one of thousand and more poets featured in this 3785 page poetry anthology. i think two of the poems are credited to me. poems that i never wrote. nor did any of the poets featured write what was credited to them.
i have to admit, that it is a howl! this will probably go down as one of the best poetry cons on the internet ever. this computational program went on to create quite a stir with threats of law suits, etc. the 'editors' did on their blog admit that it was meant to be a parody and was created bya poem generator called Erica or Erica T.Carter.

interesting times that we live in makes me think that if they had emailed all they featured, the ones that are alive, they just might have had created a pretty interesting anthology.

on reading through other blogs i did discover that most of the poems are generated from cut up texts from Joseph Conrad's 'heart of darkness'. Erica, the program, at some subconscious level strangely connected to one of my favourite reads.

Issue features poems by Nada Gordon, Evelyn Reilly, Julianna Mundim, Emmy Catedral, Enid Bagnold, Richard Siken, Stephen Ratcliffe, Michael Gottlieb, Jodie Childers, Norman J. Olson, Brent Hendricks, Sean Kilpatrick, Tom McCarthy, Stacy Doris, Michael Rerick, Corrinne Clegg Hales, Mark Decarteret, Hadewijch of Antwerp, Darren Wershler-Henry, Letitia Trent, Debra Di Blasi, Laura Elrick, Bruna Mori, Popahna Brandes, Robert Sheppard, Diana Magallan, Kristine Danielson, Ed Higgins, Drew Gardner, Kyle Kaufman, Matthew Thorburn, Tiel Aisha Ansari, Christopher Wells, Vanessa Place, Simon Pettet, Grace Vajda, John Bennett, Ian Patterson, Joseph Hutchison, John Cotter, Cheryl Lawson Walker, Scott Esposito, Jason Nelson, Daniel Kane, Kimo Armitage, Alan May, J.D. Nelson, Bob Hershon, Jennifer Karmin, Kim Rosenfield, Nathan Austin, Pearl Pirie, Rosmarie Waldrop, Tara Betts, Donald Revell, Jim Ryals, Danuta Kean, Jeff VanderMeer, Alfredo Bonanno, Irene Latham, Michael Hennesy, Dick Higgins, John Hanson, Billy Merrell, Sam Ladkin, Jeff Ward, Debra Jenks, K. Lorraine Graham, Kenji Okuhira, Sean MacInnes, Adam Seelig, Steve Halle, David Mus, Monique Wittig, Joyelle McSweeney, Daniel E. Levenson, Luke Daly, Henry Thoreau, John Palattella, Abby Trenaman, Kristen Taylor, Vassily Kamensky, David Jhave Johnston, Gene Tanta, Cate Marvin, Alison Roth, Shad Marsh, Asher Ghaffar, Henry Gould, Justin Theroux, Susan Grimm, Bernard Wilson, Ateet Tuli, Laura Moriarty, Mark McMorris, Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle, Jeffrey Cyphers Wright, William Shakespeare, Nick Trinen, Daphne Gottlieb, Magdalena Zurawski, A.K. Arkadin, Matthue Roth, Douglas J. Belcher, After Bitahatini, Neil Schmitz, Liz Henry, Tom Hansen, Craig Saper, Pris Campbell, Afua-Kafi Akua, Amish Trivedi, Chris Hutchinson, Cath Vidler, Sarah Weinman, A.E. Stallings, Robin Blaser, Roland Prevost, Mac Wellman, Steven Schroeder, Joy Garnett, Mark Lamoureux, Julie Clark, Bob Garlitz, Jeff Hamilton, Kara Dorris, Maureen Thorson, Irv Muchnick, Frank O'Hara, Robin Magowan, C. Allen Rearick, A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz, Tony Leuzzi, Bhanu Kapil, Sage U`ilani Takehiro, Shellie Zacharia, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Camille Martin, Eliot Weinberger, David Nemeth, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Iris Smyles, Bertolt Brecht, David Forbes, Colin Herd, Sergio Bessa, Zach Wollard, Adam Ford, Claudia Keelan, Hank Sotto, Jamba Dunn, Ken Mikolowski, Jean-Jacques Poucel, Santiago B. Villafania, David Valentinovia, Robert Kaufman, Dominique Meens, Joe Elliot, August Stramm, Justin Katko! Sandra Korchenko, Carol Peters, Lilah Hegnauer, Brian Evenson, Wallace Stevens, Timothy Murphy, Joseph Bradshaw, Nick Courtright, Adam Chiles, James, Kane X. Faucher, David Abel, Ray Succre, Gabriel Gudding, Antonin Artaud, Mark Cunningham, Paul Fattaruso, William Saroyan, Aaron McCollough, Confucius/Ezra Pound, David Antin, Rob Mackenzie, Ryan Eckes, Christian Peet, Peter Riley, Litsa Spathi, Anna Ahkmatova, Mark Tursi, J.D. Schraffenberger, Greg Fuchs, Sean Casey, Orpingalik, Hassan Melehy, Rosemarie Waldrop, Phillip Lund, Adam Aitken, Michael Davidson, Andrea Rexilius, William Allegrezza, Raymond Queneau, Fred Wah, Marcia Arrieta, Elizabeth Cross, Jonathan Greene, Gregory Laynor, Preston Spurlock, Jane Sprague, Kevin Thurston, Stephen Berry, William Bronk, Claudia Rankine, Steve Dalachinsky, Ed Sanders, Sam Rasnake, Wes Smiderle, James Belflower, Simmons B. Buntin, Dolores Dorantes, Emilie Clark, Leslie Marmon Silko, Sarah O'Brien, Jack Tricarico, Gerard Van der Luen, Frances Richard, Charlie Bertsch, Bob Cobbing, Sabrina Calle, Steven Burt, Stephane Mallarme, Bob Marcacci, Edwin Torres, Lois Marie Harrod, Evgeny Maizel, Luc Simonic, Lawrence Durrell, Amanda Davidson, Pendergast, Gregory Orr, Lepson, Joseph Duemer, Eric Alterman, Erin M. Bertram, Leopold Sedar Senghor, Suzanne Buffam, Andy Nicholson, Edward Champion, Katy Acheson, Okey Ndibe, Jennifer Mulligan, Renee Zepeda, Alfred Kubin, Sawako Nakayasu, David Prater, Forrest Gander, Mike Gubser, Virginia Heatter, Leslie Winer, Ed Schenk, Doug Holder, Russell Ragsdale, Jose Manuel Velazquez, Dick Jones, Gerry Loose, Daniel J. Vaccaro, Rafael Alberti, Jeff Newberry, Igor Terentiev, Micah Robbins, Friedrich Holderlin, Arif Khan, Laurel Dodge, Ann White, Nicolas Guillen, John Lowther, Cathleen Miller, Josef Vachal, Chris Moran, Miyazawa Kenji, Robert Fitterman, Norman Mailer, Doris Shapiro, Talan Menmott, Alan Licht, John Godfrey, James Maughn, Anne Heide, Jasmine Dreame Wagner, Lina ramona Vitkauskas, Judith Goldman, Rich Murphy, Halvard Johnson, Ariel Dorfman, Ed Baker, Maryrose Larkin, Sheila E. Murphy, Rosanna Warren, Jean Cocteau, Clarence Major, Eleanor Stanford, Teresa Carmody, Kenward Elmslie, Rainer Maria Rilke, Ryan Walker, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Nava Fader, Rob Budde, Allison Cobb, Robert Roley, Alison Collins, Melissa Fondakowski, Nathan Whiting, Jess Rowan, Cid Corman, Bob Heman, Libby Rosof, Cassie Lewis, Scott Saner, Roberta Allen, Raymond Farr, Anne Pierson Wiese, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, Troy Lloyd, Lindsay Boldt, Andrea Baker, Meredith Quartermain, Richard Meier, Louise Mathias, Joseph Cooper, Lynn Strongin, Outlines, Suzanne Stein, Richard de Nooy, Sherry, Robert Chrysler, Ton van't Hof, Peter Cole, Michael Slosek, June Jordan, Andrew Zitka, Eve Babitz, G.C. Waldrep, Craig Santos Perez, James Sherry, Hugh, David R. Slavitt, Dino Campana, Stephen Berer, Alastair Johnston, Angela Jaeger, Javier Huerta, Jed Birmingham, David Harrison Horton, Alan Baker, Steve Clay, Kevin Coval, Tony Brown, Debesh Goswami, Michael Farrell, Abigail Child, Tanya Larkin, Ron Slate, Emmanuel Hocquard, Lauren Dixon, Jan Zwicky, Andrew Joron, Jessica Wickens, Arthur Sze, David Baptiste Chirot, Steven May, Rob Cook, Ankur Saha, Eric Unger, Chris Heilman, James Purdy, Derek Henderson, James Collins, L.J. Moore, Michael McClure, D.S. Marriott, Michael Heller, Robert Mittenthal, Eileen Tabios, Aki Salmela, Lou Rowan, Jerome Seaton, Lori Lubeski, Paul Hardacre, Rus Bowden, John Wieners, Lauren Levin, Johanna Drucker, Velimir Khlebnikov, Terry Bisson, Martha Plimpton, Miklos Radnoti, Ken Kesey, Matvei Yankelevich, Seth Forrest, Maria Damon, David MacDuff, Kevin Doran, Rob Read, Kristen Gallagher, Rick Visser, Andrei Bely, Sara Crangle, Karl Klingbiel, Jackson Mac Low, Fox, Derik Badman, Paul Griffiths, Oliver Rohe, Mark L. Lilleleht, Michelle Bautista, Monica Schley, Aaron Levy, andrew nightingale, Douglas Messerli, Pattie McCarthy, David West, Jon McKenzie, James Weber, Carlos Rojas, Donatella Izzo, Francois Luong, Daniel Borzutzky, Umm Zaid, Tony D'Arpino, James Tierney, Tao Lin, Rochelle Owens, Amy Friedman, Natalie Zina Walschots, Kayin Wong, Emily Sher, Deborah R. Geis, Kristen Iskandrian, Brother Tom Murphy, Jeremy Gardner, Alcoholic Poet, Chris Mansel, Keith Tuma, Chris Mansell, Rob MacDonald, Yuan Mei, Stanislaw Witkiewicz, Joshua Schuster, Glenn Bach, Maureen Owen, Richard Wink, Guy Bennett, Eric Elshtain, Reza Shirazi, Tonya Foster, Karl Kempton, Allan Gurganus, Alizon Brunning, Christopher Davis, Richard Foreman, Francois Luong, Yvonne Werkman, rob mclennan, Mark McCarthy, Bill Marsh, Tom Devaney, John Most, Nick Moudry, Jennifer Reimer, Charles Baudelaire, Gabriel Pomerand, Crane Giamo, Vernon Frazer, Mike Basinski, Oliver de la Paz, Leon Damas, Mark Ducharme, Jim Leftwich, Eliot Katz, Pat Lawrence, Jeff Daily, Jefferson Navicky, Tom Savage, Legs McNeil, mIEKAL aND, Leevi Lehto, Allyson Clay, Cy Mathews, Dereck Clemons, Clayton Eshleman, Benjamin Parzybok, Kevin Isu, Laura Mullen, Angelo Suarez, Kate Greenstreet, Andrew Burke, Natalie Simpson, Susan Smith Nash, Peter Gizzi, Dana Goodyear, Terence Winch, Sandy McIntosh, Cris Mazza, James Thurber, Sarah O’Brien, Firoze Shakir, Elizabeth Castagna, D.J. Huppatz, David Koehn, Kyra Saari, Philip Jenks, Martin Corless-Smith, Jacques Leslie, Will Gallien, Mathew Timmons, Eric Lochridge, Buck Downs, Ian Hamilton Finlay, Leonard Michaels, Francis Raven, seflo, Nina Shope, Carson Cistulli, Jennifer Banks, Deborah Burnham, Steve Langan, Rosalva Garcia Coral, Betty Stork, Erica Van Horn, Anna Evans, Lizzie Skurnick, Skip Fox, Olde Quietude, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Jonathan Williams, Sarah Maclay, Pablo Neruda, Richard Tuttle, Fran Herndon, Cheryl Clark, Allen Itz, Derek White, Barry MacSweeney, Eben Eldridge, Sandra Ridley, Normie Salvador, Priscilla Long, Alan Gilbert, Dennis Tedlock, Steve Benson, Brian Whitener, Rene Char, Lawrence Ytzhak Braithwaite, Teresa Ballard, Barbara Henning, Mario Melendez, Jacques Demarcq, Harvey Bialy, Gary Norris, Kerry Shawn Keys, Dawn Pendergast, Aimee Parkison, Michael Cooper, Chris Killen, Les Webb, Roberta Fallon, John Fillwalk, Stephen McLaughlin, Elizabeth Robinson, Bob Heffernan, Zak Smith, Nicholas Lea, Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, Dan Beachy-Quick, Ross White, Stan Mir, Tim Atkins, Poppy Z. Brite, Dylan Hock, Kurt Vonnegut, Mez Breeze, Stephanie Heit, J. Mason, Colleen Lookingbill, John Hall, Michelle Morgan, Alexi Parshchikov, Clemente Padin, Lisa Jarnot, Lance & Andrea Olsen, Mark Wallace, Nancy Kuhl, Xu Smith, Jorge de Lima, Hillary Lyon, Clayton Couch, Gunnar Ekelof, Alex Caldiero, Clifford Burke, Karri Kokko, Brent Goodman, Daniel Clowes, Todd Suomela, Arlene Ang, David McDuff, Bill Sherman, Ezra Mark, Kathryn Pringle, Jem Cohen, Adam Tobin, Thomas Meyer, Clifford Duffy, Anne Waldman, Nancy Shaw, Pilar Olabarria, Chris Maher, Ezra Pound, David Hilmer Rex, Levari, Jerome Sala, Ryan Collins, Alexander Jorgensen, Shouva Chattopadhyay, Linda Susan Jackson, Jonathan Mayhew, Pejk Malinovski, Michael Parker, Claude Simon, Ian Keenan, Peter O'Brien, Jeannie Hoag, Marcel Janko, Beverly Jackson, Loren Webster, Daniel Knudsen, Michael P. Steven, Rose Kelleher, Mare Mikolum, Marcel Broodthaers, Reb Livingston, Steven Lohse, Faye Smailes, Thomas Kinsella, Peter Middleton, Kurt Schwitters, Lou Suarez, Jay Millar, Paul Holman, Michael Palmer, Larry Eigner, Jean-Michel Espitallier, Charles Bernstein, Bill Allegrezza, Tenney Nathanson, Jeff Crouch, Brian Spears, Peter Makin, Lynn Crosbie, Michael Carr, Robinson Jeffers, Fanny Howe, David Vincenti, Erica Wessmann, Lydia Davis, Craig Teicher, Jorge Luiz Antonio, Matt Christie, Jean-Patrice Courtois, Gregory Pardlo, Nathaniel Tarn, Simone Fattal, Orhan Pamuk, Ofelia Hunt, Louise Gluck, David Pavelich, Lanny Quarles, George Seferis, Louise Bogan, Susan Minot, Star Black, Ted Stimpfle, Michael Lally, Sean Whelan, Arlo Quint, Grace Molisa, Jasmine Dream Wagner, Armand Schwerner, Anselm Parlatore, Tom Orange, Frank Kuenstler, Robin Coste Lewis, MacLaren Ross, Nick, Katey Nicosia, Geraldine Connolly, Sharanya Manivannan, Maud Newton, Kerri French, Charles Shere, Stephen Burt, Tony Fitzpatrick, Mark Peters, A. R. Ammons, Jenny Davidson, Tom Hopkins, Laurie Price, Woody Haut, Jim Toweill, Anne Tardos, Ronald Johnson, Will Skinker, Linda Marie Walker, Dave Schiralli, Rachel Talentino, Christopher McVey, Jordan Davis, Chris Tonelli, Patrick Culliton, Michael Basinski, Christina Brown, Kathleen Rooney & Elisa Gabbert, Maria Benet, Regis Bonvicino, Richard Huelsenbeck, Julia Cohen, Jim Behrle, Stephanie Bolster, Timothy Liu, Donna Brook, Kristin Abraham, Marcus Bales, Patricia Wellingham Jones, Susie Timmons, Clayton A. Couch, Myung Mi Kim, John Litzenberg, Zoe Strauss, Jonathan Meakin, Janine Pommy Vega, John Matthew, Robert Sund, Janne Nummela, Robert Archambeau, Dodie Bellamy, Meghan Scott, Stephen Johnson, Brenda Schmidt, Lisa Flaherty, Martine Bellen, Ron Loewinsohn, Darryl Keola Cabacungan, Chris Ransick, Sean T. Hanratty, Tim Gaze, Kathleen Rooney, Tom Mandel, AnnMarie Eldon, Tom Peters, Billy Jones, Gilbert Adair, Jim  Behrle, Peter Jay Shippy, Amanda Laughtland, Juliet Cook, Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Brian Smith, Aldo Palazzeschi, Richard Denner, Anthony Robinson, Chris Tysh, Christopher Stackhouse, Paul Muldoon, Stefania Iryne Marthakis, Ellen Orleans, Robin Reagler, Susan Maxwell, Delia Mellis, John Baker, Jack Boettcher, Lex Camena, Jeffery Bahr, Veronica Montes, Miriam Nichols, Phil Hall, Tyler Carter, Jessica Treat, Mairead Byrne, C.S. Carrier, C.L. Bledsoe, Barbara Maloutas, Peter Schjeldahl, Marc Andre Robinson, Morgan Lucas Schultdt, Sean Thomas Dougherty, Rebecca Hazelton, Ryan Bird, Ernst Meister, Edith Sodergran, Bronwen Tate, Joritz-Nakagawa, Sharon Mollerus, Talan Memmott, Robert Burns, Jim Dunn, Matthew Cheney, Edward Nudelman, Subhro Bandopadhyay, Tiff Dressen, Sandy Florian, Jesse Glass, Jennie Skerl, Phil Fried, Eric Gurney, Christof Scheele, Nicholas Rombes, Billy Collins, Eugenio Montale, Gautam Verma, Tyler Cobb, Kendra Malone, Tom Beckett, Vivian Vavassis, Jude MacDonald, Joanna Sondheim, Paul Naylor, Kazim Ali, Josh Corey, Patrick Donnelly and Stephen Miller, Ari Bania, Geoffrey G. O'Brien, Leonard Kress, Philippe Soupault, Steve Caratzas, Joseph Mains, William Yazbec, Standard Schaefer, Betsy Andrews, Carlo Carra, Marie Hopkins, Anna Maria Hong, Burt Kimmelman, Karen J. Weyant, Max Middle, Joan Retallack, Gil Ott, Dennis Cooper, David Matlin, Tino Gomez, B.J. Love, Helen White, John Crowley, Weldon Kees, Louis Zukofsky, David Trinidad, Andrew Peterson, Bill Seaman and Penny Florence, Heather O'Neill, Reginald Shepherd, Annie Guthrie, Ammiel Alcalay, Carton Tragedy, Alfred Corn, Barbara Smith, Jozef Imrich, Yagi Mikajo, Stephen Thomson, Mark Rudman, Jena Osman, Ernesto Priego, Ken Springtail, Sam Beckbessinger, Cecilia Vicuna, Behm-Steinberg, Kate Schapira, Deidre Elizabeth, Jean Lehrman, Seth Landman, Ana Bozicevic-Bowling, Jess Mynes, Will Yackulic, Caroline Wilkinson, Maria Sabina, eldon, Richard Lighthouse, Michael Smoler, Henry Hills, Mark Marino, Poton, Thomas O'Connell, David Henderson, Michael Cross, Maralyn Lois Polak, Joe Brennan, Alice Cary, Erica Kaufman, Lewis Warsh, Steve Evans, David Byrne, Frank Parker, Kaz Maslanka, Jenna Cardinale, Peter Straub, EK Smith, Megan Martin, Meghan Punschke, Sherry Chandler, E. Tracy Grinnell, Tom Muir, Jeff Davis, F. Daniel Rzicznek, Diana Magallon and Jeff Crouch, Kyle Schlesinger, Stuart Dybek, Marco Giovenale, Zach Savich, Tom Wegrzynowski, Arnie Hoffman, Rikki Ducornet, Dawn, Thomas Fink,, Christian Jensen, Andrew Philip, Dave Pollard, Miriam Burstein, Jessica Bozek, Patrick So, Joe Massey, Carmine Starnino, Evan Kennedy, Chris Vitiello, Nick Bruno, Amy Newman, Sharon Gilbert, Aaron Tieger, William Wordsworth, Eugenio Tisselli, julia doughty, Marko Niemi, Pierre Reverdy, Lytton Smith, Lee Gurga, Jed Shahar, Tim Hunt, Lee Upton, Mark Scroggins, Rachel Smith, Robert Wodzinski, Matthew Blake, Matina Stamatakis, Robert Waxman, Jack McGuane, Bethany Ides, Alfred Arteaga, Kat Meads, Sandra Gilbert, Carlo Parcelli, Jeff Calhoun, John Bryant, Jasper Bernes, Jeffrey Joe Nelson, Joan Houlihan, Lynn Behrendt, Jack Kerouac, Brenda Iijima, James Koller, Sun Yung Shin, Ixta Menchaca, John Barton, Piero Heliczer, Todd Colby, Awotunde Aworinde, Emma Barnes, Allison Whittenberg, Jenni Russell, Rowan Wilken, Daniela Olszewska, Layne Russell, George Oppen, Ben Yarmolinsky, Phil Cordelli, Andrew Kozma, Harry Wilkens, Jonathan Lethem, Richard Gorecki, Jilly Dybka, Kirthi Nath, Jennifer Bredl, Paolo Buzzi, Aime Cesaire & Rene Depestre, Ruben Dario, Rachel Loden, William Bryant, hassen, Kerryn Goldsworthy, Jessamyn West, Salvador Dali, Greg Djanikian, George M Wallace, Sharon Brogan, Roger Farr, Lesley Yalen, Jessica Tillyer, Cathy Eisenhower, Noah Falck, Beka Goedde, Patrick Lovelace, Erik Anderson, Shahar Gold, Olivier Cadiot, Peter O'Leary, Mel Nichols, Juan Felipe Herrera, Mirabai, Rob Mackenzie, Bethany Wright, Joseph Mosconi, MTC Cronin, Terrance Hayes, Bryson Newhart, Yoko Ono, Gherardo Bortolotti, Olli Sinivaara, Jim Crace, Brendan Lorber, Tracie Morris, Jeffrey Side, Brent Cunningham, Henry Miller, Christina McPhee, Mike Nicoloff, Ray Federman, Valerie Coulton, HL Hazuka, Ari Banias, Thomas Hummel, Nicolette Bond, J.F. Quackenbush, Julia Stein, Bill Borneman, Jon Link, Steve Dickison, Scott Helmes, Brion Gysin, Sean Burke, Laynie Brown, Hermit-Sage Tradition, Jane Dark, Scott Withiam, Lance Phillips, Michael Ford, John Olson, John Bailey, Rebecca Morgan Frank, Derek Motion, Ashby Tyler, Sarah Campbell, Andrea Strudensky, Roger Gilbert-Lecomte, Mathias Svalina, Ishle Yi Park, Dubravka Djurić, John McHale, Grant-Lee Phillips, Jeremy Czerw, Richard Newman, Diana Slampyak, David McFadden, Jim McGrath, Gregory Crosby, tyler funk, Kristi Maxwell, Vladimir Zykov, Daniel Brenner, Don Mee Choi, Ted Greenwald, Meena Alexander, Sarah Mangold, Steve McCaffery, Jill Magi, Glen Bach, Hank Lazer, Stephen Brockwell, Helen Adam, Sasha Steensen, Ryan Alexander MacDonald, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Jack Morgan, Jr., Radu Dima, Larissa Szporluk, Teresia Teaiwa, Amiri Baraka, Monica Mody, Vincent Katz, Jen Benka, Roberto Harrison, Edward Byrne, Patrick Rosal, Cheryl Townsend, Carol Novack, Clive Thompson, Mary Biddinger, Erica Lewis, Michael Robins, Mira Schor, Severo Sarduy, John Taggart, Lauren Krueger, Wanda O’Connor, Peter Van Toorn, Kevin Varrone, Mark Axelrod, Erica Svec, Erik Donald France, Daniel Green, Marilyn Hacker, Ben Wilkinson, Stephanie Young, David Hall, Joe Moffet, Ric Royer, Basil Bunting, Peter Everwine, Terryanne Chebet, Philip Messenger, Maurice Sendak, Barrett Gordon, Shonni Enelow, Hannah Weiner, Dan Vera, Kristin Berkey-Abbott, Douglas James Martin, Randall Williams, Phil Crippen, Roy Kiyooka, Anita Dolman, Chris Martin, Max Ernst, Michael Rothenberg, Adeena Karasick, D.H. Lawrence, Sean O Riordain, Anne Kaier, Simone dos Anjos, Brian McMahon, Josef Capek, Gloria Oden, Georges Hugnet, Sekuo Sendiata, Timothy Yu, Craig Dworkin, Mary Ann Sullivan, Guillermo Juan Parra, Paul Klinger, Catherine Wagner, Angela Veronica Wong, Terence Gower, Chris Toll, Francis Picabia, David Bromige, John Estes, Kenneth Koch, John Moore Williams, harry k. stammer, Kyle Gann, Paul Guest, Carl Rakosi, Cole Porter, Ray Craig, Bob Holman, Jordan Stempleman, Gilbert Sorrentino, Larissa Shmailo, Kris Hemensley, Jennifer Manzano, Peter Culley, Dan Silliman, Lyn Hejinian, Lloyd Schwartz, Peter Larkin, MaryLou Sanelli, Clare Latremouille, Karla Kelsey, Peter Magliocco, Bruce Stewart, Kyle Simonsen, Glenn Ingersoll, Teri Hoskin, Henry Louis Gates, John Mcmahon, Dan Raphael, Tanya Allen, Annie Finch, Mitch, Bill Kushner, Rochita Ruiz, Tom Gilroy, Yashodhara Raychaudhuri, Elaine Terranova, Tom Hibbard, Joel Nichols, Don Cheney, Ashraf Osman, Melanie Little, Barbara Cole, Chris Higgs, Paul van Ostaijen, Kate Hill Cantrill, George Kalamaras, Ren Powell, Steve Smith, Lloyd Mintern, Denise Duhamel, Veselovsky Pitts, G.L. Ford, Stanton, Kyle Minor, Bradford Haas, Kristy Bowen, Mingus Tourette, Anna Joy Springer, Laetitia Sonami, Sam Silva, Candace Kaucher, James Dickey, Kit Kennedy, Jill Jones, Susan Scarlata, Jack Kimball, Mary-Anne Breeze, Frederico Garcia Lorca, George Kalamaris, Raymond Hsu, Joshua Arnold, Bernadette Mayer, Calvin Bedient, Rachel Tompa, Nathan Curnow, Noel Sloboda, Doug Macpherson, Vivien Bittencourt, Steve Roggenbuck, Jules Boykoff, Jessica Lawless, Raymond Federman, Sandra Miller, Amos Bronson Alcott, Marina Garcia-Vasquez, Mathew Timmons, Paul Killebrew, Mike Young, John Tipton, Chad Parenteau, Michelle Cross, Eric Abbott, Hayden Carruth, Dream Bitches, William James Austin, St. Teresa of Lisieux, Donald Hall, Karen Weiser, Marty Hebrank, Liberty Heise, Kyle Stich, Charles Reznikoff, Chris Felver, Dorothy Trujillo Lusk, Mecca Jamilah Sullivan, Henry David Thoreau, Frances Driscoll, Leonard Gontarek, Edward Smallfield, Chris McCreary, Steven Zultanski, Peter Pereira, Marthe Reed, Mackenzie Carignan, Victor Hugo, Rebecca Gopoian, Ivy Alvarez, Highfill, Harry Gilonis, Sotere Torregian, Judy Kamilhor, Justin Sirois, Suzanna Gig, Peter Seaton, Julie Carr, Mazie Louise Montgomery, Sean Reagan, Tennesee Williams, Anne Kellas, Christopher Nealon, Joan McCracken, Malcolm Phillips, Christopher Casamassima, Andrew Steinmetz, Tom Sheehan, L.Y. Marlow, Martin Larsen, Susana Gardner, David Weinberger, Bill Cohen, Sasha Sommeil, Jill Chan, Josh Robinson, Crag Hill, William Burroughs, Ruthven Todd, Annie Proulx, Monty Reid, Simon Perchik, A.K. Scipioni, Ron Hogan, Marcel Duchamp, Thomas Day, Bob Arnold, Rabia al Basri, Michael Andre, Raymond Foss, Ruby Mohan, Kate Schatz, Elizabeth Smith, Tom Matrullo, Carmen Racovitza, Blake Butler, Maggie O'Sullivan, Eugene Ostashevsky, Therese Halscheid, Lauren Levato, Hermann Hesse, Christian Prigent, Michael Reid Busk, Caroline Sinavaiana, Marcia Roberts, Muriel Rukeyser, Jessica Watson, sara seinberg, Garth Whelan, Peter Ramos, Harry K Stammer, Tom Jones, Arjun Chandramohan Bali, Lawrence Joseph, Lee Posna, Tim Mcnulty, Patrick James Dunagan, Laurie Clark, Sabbir Azam, George Green, David Maney, Jill Alexander Essbaum, Jenny Allan, Gary L. McDowell, Samuel Wharton, Leonard Cohen, Kyle Conner, Maxine Hong Kingston, Stephanie Strickland, Michael Schiavo, Lynne Tillman, Jesus Manuel Mena Garza, David-Baptiste Chirot, Augustine Porras, Juan J. Morales, Tim Z. Hernandez, Diane Ward, Donald Marshall, Jack Collom, Paul Lyons, Megan Kaminski, Chris Fritton, Paul Vermeersch, Aaron Lowinger, Bob Perelman, Steve Yarbrough, J.H. Prynne, Amy King, Geoffrey Chaucer, Joel Dailey, Christopher Hennessy, Meghan O'Rourke and Cathy Park Hong, Jennifer Scappettone, David Hecker, Carl Brush, Joy Hendrickson-Turner, Leny Strobel, John Timpane, Amanda Watson, Cate Peebles, Danny Snelson, Christopher Mulrooney, Jaime Anne Earnest, Trina Gaynon, Caleb Puckett, Weyman Chan, Patricia Dienstfrey, Evelio Rojas, Susan Tichy, Shawn McKinney, Gerald Bosacker, Joel Kuszai, Norman Lock, Eric Gelsinger, Suzanne Frischkorn, Gabor Szilasi, Shannon Smith, Peter J. Grieco, Nasra al Adawi, Anna Moschovakis, Charles Henri Ford, Nicholas Downing, Sharron Proulx-Turner, Richard Long, Majena Mafe, Timothy Kreiner, Jorge Luis Borges, Lucebert, Chuck Stebelton, John Sparrow, Victor Hernandez Cruz, Jee Leong Koh, Sophie Robinson, Carol Mirakove, Susan Stewart, Adalaide Morris, Camille Bacos, Diane Williams, Robert J. Baumann, Kristi Castro, Don Illich, Holly Anderson, C.D. Wright, Jerome McGann, Alex Gildzen, Joseph Lease, Allen, Meagan Wilson, David H. Thomas, Jane Thompson, Andrew Zawacki, Gottfried Benn, John Hyland, Jim Morrison, Lyle Daggett, Robert Duncan, Diane Lockward, Kate Daniels, Angela Woodward, Paul Vazquez, Jesse Minkert, E. Ethelbert Miller, Scott Withaim, Arthur Rimbaud, Luc Fierens, Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore, Rackstraw Downes, Elizabeth James, Paolo Javier, Robyn Sarah, Rosemarie Crisafi, Wendy Collin Sorin, Jack Hirschman, Flynne Bracker, Rick Wiggins, Baron Wolman, Frederic Tuten, Su Carlson, Raina Leon, C.E. Chaffin, Katrinka Moore, Lucy Anderton, Reyes Cardenas, Mei Mei Chang, Scott Malby, Alice Becker-Ho, Wassily Kandinsky, Bob Hazelton, Leonard Schwartz, Larry Smith, Dave Winer, Ivan Carswell, Genevieve Kaplan, John Findura, Shrikanth Reddy, David Horowitz, Jocelyn Grosse, C. Dale Young, Kiki Smith, Scott K. Odom, Brandon Brown, Tim Lockridge, Lauren Goodwin Slaughter, Steve Luxton, Melissa Buzzeo, Aaron Kunin, Anne Haines, William Carlos Williams, Catherine Daly, Jack Martin, Ocean, Angela Rawlings, Richard Hell, Monica de la Torre, Ruth Lepson, Trevor Calvert, Donato Mancini, Diana Adams, Miranda Mellis, Dust Congress Hackmuth, Philip Whalen, Dan Thomas-Glass, Abigail Licad, Caroline Rothstein, Matt Briggs, Hans Arp, Patrick F. 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Harris Stevens, Walter Abish, Amy Lemmon, Claude Royet-Journoud, John Keene, Aaron Armstrong Skomra, Jordan Sanderson, Reg Johanson, Peter Yovu, Daniel Pendergrass, John Beer, Justin Lacour, Jennifer Moxley, Nathan Lang, Hazel Smith, Iamnasra Oman, pr primeau, Sheryl Luna, Jonathan Ball, Terry Southern, Christian Peet, Pierre Joris, Oana Avasilichioaei, Arunta, Deanna Ferguson, Tom Phillips, Susan Schultz, Jason Camlot, David Kirschenbaum, Gail Mazur, Jack Hughes, Zack Finch, J.H.Prynne, Rebecca Loudon, Scott Inguito, Esmail Yazdanpour, Naftali Bacharach, Jennifer Osborne, Sylvia Plath, Richard Lopez, Sandy Baldwin, Kirsten Lavers, Andrew Christ, Ann Lauterbach, Shelly Taylor, Nicole Peyrafitte, Jessica Savitz, Sam Golden Rule Jones, K. Silem Mohammad, Lionel Kearns, Lili Bita, Aime Cesaire, R W Sturgess, James Moran, Mike Topp, Dan Featherston, Chris Daniels, Gregory Botts, Nicole Oquendo, Thomas Devaney, Randall, Keith Shein, William Harris, Rik Roots, Patricia Carragon and Andy Comess, Alejandro Tarrab, Matthew Shindell, Eric Gamalinda, Amy Bernier, Spencer Selby, Simone Muench, Piombino, Michelle Buchanan, David Lehman, Jonathan Skinner, Sandra Beasley, Patricia Spears Jones, Hal Saulson, Laura Riding, Taylor Mali, Nam June Paik, W.B. Yeats, Peter Reading, Graham Foust, Brenda Coultas, Emily Lloyd, Ed Skoog, D.G. Jones, Vicente Huidobro, Jared Schickling, Peter Sacks, Kate Pringle, Rita Wong, Laila Lalami, Nancy Friedman, Franz Kafka, Robert Hellam, Brian Campbell, Danny Fields, Mario Cafiero, Peter Ciccariello, Cat Tyc, Nate Pritts, Andrea Brady, Andy Frazee, Felino Soriano, Clair Becker, Soumana Dasgupta, Jill Riga, David Raphael Israel, Stacey Levine, Mike Magee, Tim Yu, Cesar Vallejo, Isidore Ducasse, Amanda Earl, Romina Freschi, Alan Halsey, Daniel f. Bradley, Charles Rossiter, Noelle Kocot, Jayne Pupek, Aldous Huxley, Deborah Fries, Alani Apio, Jessica Smith, Christopher Barnes, Rick Snyder, Sarah Lang, Emily Dickinson, Cecilia Ann, bpNichol, Susanna Fry, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Charles Borkhuis, Herman Beavers, Stephanie Skura, Jessica Bennett, Steve Carey, Madeline Gins, Thom Donovan, Chuck Perrin, Luci Tapahonso, Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, Ira Cohen, Marko J. Niemi, Ray Davis, Nancy Gandhi, Dee Rimbaud, Mary O'Malley, Evie Ivie, Pamela Mack, Lawrence Lessig, Allyssa Wolf, and Snezana Zabic.

story telling: butcher shop blues

an abso brilliant song written by a dear friend and a brilliant poet: priyanka joseph.


story telling: butcher shop blues

under a gold desert sky

yesterday
a sparrow
sat
on
my
foot
startling
a slumber
i stood in

looking up
it whirred
little wings
dropping dominoes
opening memories

stretching a wing out
to make a point
it twittered
"we flew
together
under a gold desert sky
to the giant tree
of the hermit prince

do you remember?"

she hovered
and pricked
my finger
drawing me
out of
a trance
"you're done
my love
now be
a bird"

i fell to fly
light by her
to my tribe
that waited
not far

"greetings friends,
how goes?

che, you look a bit used up
tahir, you bend at your spine
lee, you been sleeping with william?
m.m. are you a grandma now?

sorry
i had left you all"

tired, sad
eyes glow
inner peace
and question
with kindness
"and where
were you
all this
time?"

i whirred
my wings
from a branch
below
"i…i…was living
out of boxes
gathering dust
growing a beard…

aesop
you been around
since i turned two
rob
you stood by me
at maya's birth
shirley
do you still hate me?
runjhun
you really must smile more

sorry
i muddled your lives
in transit

hey! but we twitter well together

i must
confess
now i did
not intend
to jumble
you up
like i did

blinded
by light
i had to
put you
all away"

No Smoking - A review

Did you hate it?
Then, take a step back.
Re-look at your own conditioning.
Listen, hear, see, absorb.
Let this man tell his story.

No Smoking: the promos had John asking a Russian soldier for a light seconds before he is to be shot. The promos had sizzling Bipasha. The image in my head that was forming was that finally Anurag has gone and done a 'full on' commercial film which might border on dark humour. And it seemed that would be his path considering the body of work behind him. The promos did more harm to the film than anything else.

The movie starts off wonderfully with John in Siberia and a bit of action. Classic prescribed 10 minutes as quoted in all ' how to do screenplay books'. And yes, I am into it.
As it progresses, you realise that there is something not quite right in this universe he is showing. There are lots of people with hearing aids and the conversation only borders around smoking. Yes, but then he did say that in the title.
The bizarre story deals with created worlds, other dimensions, and outcasts. K, John Abraham, is a rich man who has-smoking-nightmares. He also has a wife-who is also his secretary- apart from that he smokes. Yes, he smokes. His friend smoke and then some do not. Those who do not, they wear hearing aids and dish out Kalkutta Karpets visiting cards- which is a laboratory dedicated to wiping out addiction of any kind. For a steep price.
Well, wife, Ayesha Takia, decides to leave him and he cannot deal with that because he has baggage from his parent’s separation and divorce. This compels him to go to rehab. Baba Bengali, Paresh Rawal in a fantastic performance, along with his undersized (dwarf-why do they appear every time a filmmaker approaches a surreal subject?) and over-sized (pehlwans) assistants who live in this manhole universe which has burqa clad call centre employees who could be women, offers him a cure.
The rest of the film is about K trying to get back to smoking and being under watch by Guruji's far reaching eyes.

The specter of Baba Bengali cryptically in the back of the plot; is Baba Bengali a man, a force, a monster? The answer doesn't come until the very end of the film, where K, who is also our Neo is absorbed by this matrix. Philosophical issues such as Big brother watching, free will and determinism, suicide, and death are dealt with throughout the twisty tale. It is truly a bizarre story, and twenty minutes through the film the unsuspecting audience who went to see John being chased by Russian soldiers and sizzling Bipasha may start to wonder what they've got themselves into.

The second half gets me into a twist because Ayesha Takia suddenly turns into a bumbling secretary and I start to feel that the director has now lost the tone. It spirals downwards for a bit before getting back on trails.
From a feminist point of view, and I am neither a woman or a feminist, I do find Ayesha's portrayal of the secretary terribly sexist and also of the other women in the film as bored housewives and burqa clad women. The other two women, who appear, appear as...err... 'Item' numbers. What was the need for the Bipasha number??? Also, the fact that in the de-addiction plan the addicts are only men! Women don't smoke?

No smoking is somewhat fumbling, and even a little clumsy and overbearing in places. John as an actor is definitely growing and everybody else hits the perfect note except the Ayesha secretary performance. I frankly thought that the camerawork, art direction, the realisation of the worlds, the framing could've gone into a level far beyond because the story idea is fantastic and so is the screenplay at times. I wish as a storyteller Anurag had invested more time in the beginning of the film establishing the universe he is telling a story about.

No Smoking only resembles Anurag's other work in a nebulous and tenuous way. This one is complex, rich, and engrossing if you leave your expectations behind. That said this film is probably best left to people who truly enjoy cinema in a...hmmm...well....intellectual experimental manner; and if you want to see absolutely everything Anurag directs, then go ahead.

In the end No Smoking is not a bad film, as you will be lead to believe by the critics and probably 99% of your friends and peers. By no means is it bad but as a film by Anurag Kashyap (Black Friday) it is disappointing. Only because, it could’ve gone a few hazaar levels up (shhh! I know I know how difficult it is to make films and I know you get budgets only if you have sale-able stars). Full marks to the filmmakers behind this project for having dared.
No Smoking is an international film, experimental, intellectual and thought provoking but definitely not for mass consumption. It just isn't what you expect to hit you when you walk into a cinema hall in India in a film starring mainstream actor-stars.

It could've been a Vanilla Sky.

Now that I have said what I thought about the film and approached it as coldly as I could from the world cinema angle, the experimental angle, I must retire to the safe cocoon of my very own mainstream Hindi film which is shortly to go into labour. We can start a different kind of debate then.

Coming soon to a cinema near you. ;-)))

sweorcan

i fear the molten light
that cuts the embrace
of my darkness

somebody, somebody please
inform the sun to stop staring
and to the moonbeam to keep off
keep off my wavering mind

i fear the molten light
that cuts the embrace
of my darkness

tell that sun again, please
to warm not my heart
and to the moonbeam
that binds my being

let me be

let me be in
the shadows
of my eclipsed love
of the silence

i fear the molten light
that cuts the embrace
of my darkness

* sweorcan, anglo-saxon verb, meaning "to grow dark."

if green were blue

the mind fogs a darker colour
from pinot noir and talks,

"to make rosé, leave
skins in juice
for a short time,
or a bleeding, a saignee
but you would be frowned upon
if you were to marry
a shiraz to a chenin blanc"

towards a canopied bed i drift
with a rage in my head
that disappears in a blink
before the pen meets my eye

shall i tell you about
those three prong footprints
that puzzle me?
walking over one another
fragile complex patterns
like a song in sand...
but now i must retire
to count peacocks
in bed

an arm, a thought, instant lust
wanders the coiled brain,
my mind rummages a movie
of human companionship,
pronged feet on sand return to haunt me,
plain peahens seek my attention,
they seem to work harder.
his calls to her are the same
as the cry for the rains,
does he dance to mate or to shake
the drops off his plumage?
ah! those peacocks in the desert

did she design his colour?

"from green go blue
with a hint of gold
and sway as you walk
in search for earthworms.
perch yourself high,
catch the sun
in a million eyes
of blue, gold and green.
shudder in joy
when you dance
keep them entranced.
while i work
or i might poke your eye
till you turn blue..."

did he protest saying: "green...
green is my poison.
hides me in the trees,
reminds me of the earth i dance on,
after the clouds have burst,
these colours are a bit much...
tell me, if frogs were blue
would you love them too?"

they talk, those peacocks in the desert...

the wine turns colour
blurring peacocks beneath
emerald sheets,
her ebony frame dances
a wandering arm at me,
then from her warm muwallad breast
i suckle a khamriyyah while she whispers,
"have you seen those peacocks
dance in the desert?"

Without You

On the run in dense obscurity
You're the cause that shrouds
Every day dreaming dreams of
A woman in those scattered clouds

She said she was a loser
At the same old, old game
An angel with a brightening edge
Burning in search of fame

All I gained was a new gun
To satisfy her heartache
Just as the bullets began to fly
I had to clear the blue blue sky

Then she left my open door
Cold wind in her hair
And the dark night shrouds
No love, no tears, no ugly sounds

And tonight i'll make me one mistake
And the moon- it doesn't feel all right
Cold inside with a struggling thirst
Her young pride watchfully in sight

(chorus)
Then she left my open door
Cold wind in her hair
And the dark night shrouds
No love, no tears, no ugly sounds

She got me to hide tonight
'Cause I wanted to know
I couldn’t sleep with old rules
When the bullets began to fly

(chorus)
Then she left my open door
Cold wind in her hair
And the dark night shrouds
No love, no tears, no ugly sounds

And with no regrets I squeezed
the trigger and looked within
My memory of a lost love
Running the breeze in that sky

Living on my own I don't care
This one time I will carry on
With an image of love, of her
By the door... with a cold wind in her hair

(chorus)
Then she left my open door
Cold wind in her hair
And the dark night shrouds
No love, no tears, no ugly sounds

(chorus)
Then she left my open door
Cold wind in her hair
And the dark night shrouds
No love, no tears, no ugly sounds


Without you
Without you
...



acknowledgements: rohinton daruwala

east patel nagar

hello hello ji
nice to see you ji

must tell you sir ji
bout eating gol-guppey ji
in the backside of east patel nagar
where often you can find a mugger
no, not ummrican hood, but like lacoste
you know, desi-branded-rip-off’s at low cost
on the cross road beside i.g. chowk
squats a bhaiya by the sidewalk
every evening he arrives on a pink luna
once parked he pops out packet o'choona
an' tobacco, of which just a pinch
he drops into a lower lip clinch
the juice in seconds gets his mind abuzz abuzz
and he sets to prepare the hafta for the fuzz
*snnooo-pha-snooo* his nose loudly he blows
but careful he is to drip not on his toes
after a delivery, of forty, to inspector gulati
he returns to business and wipes hands snotty

a kitty-party approaches in colours bold
to dull bhaiya's vision with their gold
to a shout for "twenty more" he attends
from the second mrs. ghosh who pretends
(to be slim) but that not being our tale
we return to see bhaiya’s plunging crusty nail
and to the not mysterious world of pani-puri
*burp* oh! excuse please…my breakfast: akoori
now an aloo-onion-chana mash he kneads
while sweat from forehead drops its beads
this mix he poops through a thumb-holed crown
and dunks the puffy into chilli-paani brown
the puchkas mrs. ghosh and the kittens pop and savour
in the midst of east patel with not uncommon valour
but remember the next day, not fondly, the pulper-gulpers do
when on the throne, in agony, his name they wail “baloo, baloo…%#&$”
"of travels, of travails, of gluttony, of gore"
in my book, tales such, i do have more

hello hello ji
hear the kebab story ji

----




glossary:
ji: used as a honorific across the hindi speaking belt.
gol-guppey aka pani-puri aka puchkas: popular street food in south-asia. a puffed fragile thin pastry stuffed with a mash and then dunked in water laced with chillies.
mugger: One who commits a mugging.but in hindi: a crocodile/alligator
ummerican: punjabi way of saying american
desi: colloquial for 'one from back-home' used across south asia.
bhaiya: means older brother also used for a person from the uttar-pradesh cow-belt
luna: moped
choona: hmmm plaster. its mixed with tobaco and eaten. across south-asia.
hafta: lit. meaning: weekly. street-talk: to pay bribe or protection money (weekly)
kitty-party: unique north-indian concept. a ladies get together where they eat and play cards in a group
akoori: scrambled eggs cooked along with tomatoes,ginger,garlic,onions, green-chillies
aloo: potato
chana: i think they are called white-oats in english

Review: Dastangoi

Dastangoi evening at Prithvi, 16th april, 2006:


A review: Imagine


imagine marigold strings.
imagine, on the floor, white sheeted mattresses with bolsters.
imagine two men dressed in white cotton angarkha/jama and delicate white chikan 'topis'.
imagine them seated on a low broad indian divan.
imagine minimal props: silver bowls with water, a snuff-box and a few other odds and ends.

imagine these two men narrating.
imagine flying fingers detailing a woman's costume and make-up or
imagine perhaps a town with a blood red river and pearl eating fish.
imagine stories of kings, of simple men, of beautiful women and of sorcerers.
imagine these stories told in expressive speech.
imagine them on animated faces.
imagine the twists and turns in stories in the dramatic oral style of the caravanserai storytellers.

imagine this in poetry.
imagine it in 'bazaaru' (street) language.
imagine this in urdu-hindustani.

imagine, also, an awestruck audience.
imagine an alive, throaty, laughing audience.
imagine happy faces fed with stories.
imagine the applause now.

imagine what you missed now.

imagine you could see it one day.
imagine, till then.








(c) 2006 arjun chandramohan bali

Dastangoi

Dastangoi
as explained by Mahmood Farooqui (Director-Actor)in an introduction


The Sea of Eloquence – An Evening of Dastan-e-Amir Hamza




The oral narration of Dastan-e-Amir Hamza was a popular past time in most parts of Central, Western and South Asia and North Africa since medieval times. Originally composed in Persian, the Dastan-e-Amir Hamza describes the battles of Amir Hamza, the Prophet Muhammad’s Uncle, against infidels, sorcerers and other pretenders to divinity.

Until the beginning of the twentieth century, the Dastan-e-Amir Hamza was singularly successful in entertaining a whole range of people, from the commoners at chauks and nukkads to the elites in their palaces; it was performed at the steps of the Jama Masjid where Dastangos gathered. While their neglect as literature is inexcusable, they have been wholly obliterated from the canon of performing arts. As anecdotes of Mir Baqar Ali, the last known Dastango of Delhi, testify, their performances required an exceptional command over rhetoric, delivery, mimicry, ventriloquism and spontaneous composition.

The present performance of Dastangoi builds upon some recent shows that were enthusiastically received in the Capital. The performance consisted of portions of the best-known daftar, or chapter, of the 46 volume Dastan-e-Amir Hamza, the Tilism Hoshruba, the ‘Enchantment that Steals away the Senses’, which is itself in seven volumes.

The performances have come about as a result of a collaboration between S.R. Faruqi, the foremost living authority on these Dastans and the only person to possess a full set of all the 46 volumes, and the performers. Faced with neglect and systematic devaluation we now have very scanty evidence for the way in which these Dastans were compiled and performed. Even basic things such as movements, gesticulation, stage setting are wholly unknown. The current performance is therefore merely an exploration of an Art form which, astonishingly in a culture where poetry was regarded as the supreme art, was considered by some to be of a higher order than poetry itself. Dastangos were supposed to be a repository not just of language, common speech as well as literary, but also of social mores, craftsmanship, and all other forms of knowledge.

The Dastangos of old performed in an oral culture where memory, sound and directness were much prized. As modern actors we neither have skills to memorize whole daftars, nor the inventiveness to do spontaneous and extempore improvisations which are the hallmark of oral performances.

Mahmood Farooqui
New Delhi

Mahmood Farooqui is a self-trained actor and performer whose most recent foray into acting consisted of a role in Mahesh Dattani’s English film, Mango Soufflé. Initiated into theatre as a schoolboy, and as stage manager, by Mohan Maharishi, former director of the National School of Drama, he directed several plays at school and college, and prepared for the final entrance workshop of the NSD, before founding his own amateur theatre group called Dastak Theatre. After completing his M Phil in Indian History, Mahmood went to Mumbai and performed in IPTA’s Aakhri Shama and the Company Theatre’s Hindustani presentation of Rosencratz and Guildenstern are Dead. Earlier this year, he was given a Fellowship by Sarai, CSDS to work on the Dastan-e-Amir Hamza.

Danish Husain has done theatre with the best names in the country - Habib Tanvir, M.S. Sathyu, Barry John, Rajinder Nath, Sabina Mehta Jaitley, Aziz Quraishi, et al in a wide variety of roles. His latest assignments include a play called Raja by Rabindra Nath Tagore and a movie, Losing Gemma, by Granada Productions for a British TV Channel called ITV. He’ll also be performing at Bonn Theatre Festival in May 2006 as part of Habib Tanvir’s Agra Bazaar troupe. Besides being an accomplished actor Danish is a poet and a writer, whose work has been published across a cross-section of media, including Tehelka and other journals. He is a member of few collaborative blogs and a writer's group called Wriyaz supported by the British Council. Danish holds a Master's degree in economics from the Delhi School of Economics and an MBA from the Faculty of Management Studies, University of Delhi.

Tonight, I have questions for you

Tell me, do you see love when you walk into my room?
For under the sweetness of your façade virtuous
I cannot seem to see the love that you spout

Dear love, forget me
What do you see?

Tell me, what is it to see what you see?
Now that your lungs breathe 'pure love'
as you lie – eyes open wide –
under a momentary temptuous sky

Dear love, forget me.
What do you see?

Tell me, do you see love trails from my eyes?
When but, for his theft – a declaration of love
that brought chaos – you blushed shame
leaving me with a simmering summer vision

Dear love, forget me
What do you see?

Tell me, does your sight still glaze?
Maybe it gets tough through this serpentine
story of our jaded lives seeking chimeras

Dear love, forget me
What do you see?

Tell me, do you now see any worth?
Go on break the stupor. Blink.
Word your answers with care
for I might not in my pride see
what you might want me to see

Dear love, forget me
But gently, do tell me
What do you see?

--

(c) arjun chandramohan bali.

The White Hotel

The parapet, on which I rest, is white and narrow. My eyes open to a sound. A gypsy teen, regal in appearance, runs through the shrubbery in the central courtyard. He seems to know where he is going. His gait has joy.

The teen disappears into a large cavernous opening hidden by a small, dense, bamboo and pink bougainvillea forest. I get up and run along the parapet. There seems to be a need to follow that boy. I jump to the level below, and run into the tunnel.

It is huge; must have been a bunker. A cross between a curio shop and a museum. The roof is lined with small pieces of glass, which reflects the disjointed colours from the lights around the exhibits: old bicycles, motorbikes, motor cars, helmets and racing suits of famous moto-rally drivers. In the far corner, on a wall, the curator has put together a study of the motorbike wheel over the ages. The wheels make for steps for the teen.

The boy climbs up this side wall and rests his stomach on top of the room divider. He seems to be surveying the other side. A minute later, he disappears. I follow in haste.

On the other side of the bunker is an art installation. Suspended by wires, is a Bombay local-train carriage, from the 1980’s, above a Japanese Zen garden. The water is represented by carefully raked sand and gravel. Rocks of diverse sizes, littered at random, pretend to be islands. The garden looks like a Zen monk’s description of the south-pacific islands. From this, a path of uneven, flat, black stones, cleaves itself through a water body towards an exit.

The boy deftly runs across the rock pathway and, treading water over a missing rock, lands on the other bank.
I yell out to him “hey! How do I get there?”
He stops and smiles. “Just swing down from the train and land in the garden. It is not so hard.”

I jump from the wall onto the roof of the train, and swing down through the doorway into the carriage. It is spotlessly clean. The steel floor is bright and shiny and warm to touch, as if the commuters had emptied out only a few minutes ago. I slide down holding the treadboard, and let myself land on a perfectly flat stone. I am careful to not disturb the sand patterns. I can hear voices of visitors from the moto-room. Jumping across the imaginary step, I land next to the boy.

“I am glad you made it. Are you here to discover your soul?”

Not knowing what to say, I nod a yes. His smile is dazzling. Holding my hand, he walks me out into a sunlit courtyard with white walls and a solitary Nag-Champa tree in full bloom. As i walk past the champa i smell the morning. We walk into a corridor. The boy turns left into a room which looks like a neater, miniature version of the bunker we had just been in, minus the train carriage. The walls are white. A series of flat, rough, white stones set in a lotus pond form steps towards a door. The second last step before the door is missing.

The boy runs across the steps towards the door. He takes the imaginary step, treads water, and turns to smile.
“It is always there. You have to believe in it.” He grins. I run across to him. He slowly opens the door. We are on the edge of a cliff. A quaint, white and sky-blue fishing village next to an aquamarine sea lies a few thousand feet below. I catch my breath.

“This is it.” He grins again. “But the time is in the evening.”
“Ok”
I step back and he closes the door. We both turn to see my roommate enter.
The poet, happy to see us, smiles. “I did not know you were here for the same reason.”
I smile, and walk past him and turn right for the hotel foyer.
I see you sitting there with your friends. You wave as you see me. I walk towards my room.
--

My dreams are vivid. They always have been. Lately, I see people from a future. I wake up to a red-orange light reflecting on the wall opposite the bed. Sunil, the poet who is my roommate, has left his luggage neatly packed on the bed. I run, bare feet, back towards the lotus pond room. Sunil is there.

“It seems you managed some sleep?...hmm...the boy was here a little while ago. He asked about you. He left...” Sunil motions in the direction of the door with his chin. It is getting darker outside. He puts the laptop back into its case. From his change pocket he removes a small gold coin and leaves it on the table.

“You may need to go out...while I…” he says to me as he walks towards the door. His right foot treads water on the imaginary step. He catches my eye "it is always there.” We both say it together.

“No worries, Sunil. I am right here if you need me.”
He stops by the door and looks out. “I could have never guessed you were a traveler. You did not seem the type.”
“I just followed the boy. Felt a need. There were answers associated. It seemed he would lead me to them.”
“We search. Don’t we? We spend a lifetime searching. The answers are always there.”
“Ha…ha…Sunil. You say it well. Now hurry up. I need to get some answers. I need to yell her name into that wind.”
“Yes. Names…names in the wind…answers” He smiled back.

I turn to look towards the entrance. Behind me, a door clicks shut. Then I hear a sound from a thousand feet below: a hollow empty sound. The wind moves the curtains gently. I run back towards the door. I know I must not look down. The town looks grey in colour. The wind speaks in tongues. It carries names. You can hear them if you stay long enough. I close the door. Behind me.

I walk back towards the table. At the entrance, a young man with braided hair, high cheek bones and kohl-lined eyes, plays the pan-flute. A coin-bag hangs from his belt. He looks at me. I look away.

I think about Sunil’s laptop. Should I leave it here? Will the police want it? Na, I think I should take it back to the room. Maybe he left me something to read. Maybe he left something for his family. I walk out with the laptop. The pan-flute plays a happy sound.

The garden lights come on. The tree casts graphic shapes against the blank wall. You are in the garden. Your hair is beautiful. The embroidered, long white skirt with the cotton top makes you look angelic. I need to know your name.





© Arjun Chandramohan Bali

It Was Green!

You know Saleem, it does get a bit lonely out there in the middle of the desert; but I have to tell you a tale of a great visit. I think a Farishta visited me a few days ago.

I had just finished the evening prayers, hobbled the sheep, fed the camel and sat down to make myself a sheesha with just a little opium in it that's when I heard a soft thud behind the tent. So I tell myself Ahmed you must be tired. I take a long drag and look up towards the sky. My father had told me that in the evening we must empty our head of all thoughts.

Then I take a second long drag and I hear the sheep talking. No, that is normal. It happens all the time. You know the sound they make on a full stomach and after some action with the rams. Ya! That sound.

Then I take a third drag and look at the Oriental-Lady constellation. I say to myself: I have seen another beautiful day, thanks to Merciful Allah. I feel very small under this gigantic carpet of stars. The sheep have now started to sing. I get up after another half drag of that wonderful sheesha. There is some mischief afoot I think. I fear it may be the work of Shaitaan.

I go behind the tent and towards the oasis where the sheep stand hobbled. Suddenly I see a tall form move hurriedly in between the sheep. I whip out my knife and I yell out, "Wahhh!!!!!!!! Who goes there? I will kill you! You have no shame…you sheep stealer! May the wrath of Allah be on you! May you get tape-worms!"

Saleem brother, you will not believe what I saw. It was seven feet, no maybe eight feet tall. It could I am sure climb the palm tree in a second. It looked like one. It was green in colour, had no hair, and was dressed in nothing but what Allah the Merciful had brought him into this world.The green man looked at me. I think it got afraid of my Bedouin rage. I can look fierce, you know that. So I said to it "Peace is on you brother…ummm…sister…" I was not sure yet, "if you come here as a sheep stealer I am afraid I will have to kill you according to the Ancient desert laws but if you come seeking warmth and food you are welcome to my tent."

Saleem, his eyes were kind. Yes, I had decided it was a man for no woman would walk the desert in her nakedness. The sheep took to him kindly. Now you know the kind of man I am, if the sheep like him so would I. I offered him the sheet off my head for cover .

"Salam! Are you a foreigner? Are you an Indian god? Hindu?" Saleem, I have seen a picture of the heathens in Hind. They worship strange looking Gods who are blue and purple in colour and sometimes have elephant heads. He shook his head. I think he understood. He took the sheet and dusted himself. I told him to tie it around his mid-section, am not sure why, cause he was clean…nothing there…smooth like marble. I said to him to go ahead and cover himself; I would feel better.

We walked back to the fire I had made. I squatted on my haunches and offered him the carpet and the sheesha as the desert laws have taught me.He held the pipe not knowing what to do. I took the pipe and showed him how. He did the same. The mouth opened as a slit by magic. I swear the mouth slit was not there a look ago. Allah! Strange are your ways and stranger are your creations.

I offered to cut him a sheep for the meal. He got up to as if to go. I took it for a no. I offered him the remaining hummus and bread. He liked it. Having fed him, I introduced myself to him. "Ahmed" I said pointing to myself.

"Krukthoo" is what I heard in return. Strange names these non-desert people have. Why cannot everyone take his or her name from the Holy Book? Life would become simpler. You remember the white man who came to our village, he had said his name was Ralph. Ha! Ha! Ha! How much we laughed. Poor man, he did not know that is what we called granny's underpants. Ha! Ha! Saleem life was so much fun as children.

I sat down to make another of those opium pipes. Krukthoo seemed to enjoy them as well. We felt connected, as brothers do after they have met in years. I sang him two or three songs. You know he would have made a good Arab; he hardly spoke and sat like royalty. After a few of those sheeshas and couple of rounds of tea we had warmed up. He was reclining now. He looked me straight in the eye. His were like my camel's. Then he says to me, "Whyisn'ttheearthmoreconcernedaboutprotectingtheenvironment?"
"Huh?"
"Whyisn'ttheearthmoreconcernedaboutprotectingtheenvironment?" his voice was like that of Gazalla. You remember the gypsy girl from the next oasis. Ya, like hers. He did not talk. He sang.

I said, "You sing wonderfully! Could you repeat it again?"

"Why isn't the earth more concerned about protecting the environment?"

Ahhhhh! Now I realise what he spoke. I looked at my fire, then towards the clean water of the oasis, then towards the starlit sky; I felt the powdery desert sand and then took a deep breath and said to him, "Krukthoo, the desert is my home. It has always been like this. It was like this when Prophet Mohammed walked by, like this when Holy Man Moses took the Philistines across. What are you talking about?"

Saleem, I am sure he was a Farishta, an angel of God, for he disappeared like a shooting star in the wink of an eye. Yes...Saleem, it was eight feet tall with kind eyes and no hair. It was green…wait!…wait!…why are you leaving? Wait! the night is still young...

Five days later

Five days I have mourned. Five days, I have shed tears till they ran out leaving a hollow pain that I had not known before. Five days, I have sat here in this room, not moving, not eating, not sleeping and let my life and its purpose flash through my head.

At day break, this morning, I showered, wore white and invoked and sought guidance from the spirit of my father. A few minutes later, a shikra arrived on my window with a tulsi leaf. I took it as a sign. I broke my mourning with a small meal of fruits and then slept for a few hours. It was time for me to refresh my soul.

Early evening, I woke up and set about with my plan. The first step will be the trickiest. I have decided push forward a new social machinery to seek out those who have put me into this misery.

From the city below, I hear the din of the market place and the bazaar musicians of Gardabad – the City of Dust. The city that in time has become mine. Yes, I can call it that. Mine. It has given and taken enough, from me.

Gardabad, city of bazaars, of traders and thieves, the rich and the poor, the modern and the old, the logical and the romantic, a city divided in two by history: of complete opposites. The city of spires, gargoyles, thin alleys, chaotic traffic and underground step-wells: where the people meet to trade stories, gossip, fornicate, juggle, sing, do small business and sleep their hot afternoons away. The city that constantly changs its names but had stood for longer than people could remember . The city which re-invented without changing much of its outward appearance: a thin layer of constantly moving dust covered the modern glass and steel and the older masonary.

The city is home to four hundred thousand people. It has seven bridges, that connect it to the world, over two rivers joined by canals that form a crescent-shaped moat on three sides. Across a large sand bar, to the south, lies the Arabian Sea. If I were to soar like a bird and peer in the distance I just might see, to the north, across the Rann: Sindh, the ancient home of my mother’s tribe. Towards the west, a pink-red-orange desert sun comes down on Kaala Putther, Devils Tower.

From this moment, I revert to my birth name: Imashagen Tin Hinan.

My father gave me the name of his tribe-Imashagen and of our woman leader, Tin Hinan, who established the first kingdom of the Tuareg. Tuareg, a despicable name given by the colonists.

Atisi Ag Agoda, my father, a professional soldier and a traveller had got himself a job with a French trading company in Uzbek. There he fell in love with a Sinti girl, Gulal, and they made Uzbek their home. That was in 1949. My mother, Gulal, had been a Lety Gypsy Camp prisoner who had managed to escape from the train while being transferred to Auschwitz.

The Second War in Europe had come to an end leaving the European colonists economically shattered. Around the same time, the people of occupied Africa and Asia had risen in revolt seeking the independence they had so desired. Amazingly with freedom, peace returned along with modernism to these ancient people. A Confederation of City Nations rose and returned to the economies built around the businesses of the old Silk trade routes.

Into this free world, in 1965, the youngest of nine children, I was born

My father passed away in my final year of school. The Sinti Mohalla Elders, after a year’s mourning, pressurised my mother to marry me to a Gadoy (Luli) tribe man thirty years my senior. The women of the Mohalla had whispered that the Elders had made money on this exchange. Gulal, by then, had gone senile and my brothers and sisters had moved to Europe with their families.

After my marriage, and I will not take his name, he moved us to Multan. He had family and a business there. In his house, my status was that of younger, healthier, slave to his two other wives and by night to his lust. Two months later, I was pregnant and very angry.

One moonless night, I stole his horse and rode towards Lahore. My plan was to hide at the Sufi Dargahs on the way. I knew they would protect a pregnant woman. The Gadoys, his tribesmen, were close behind; I had spotted them, on the second day, while boarding a bus at the Sukkur Bus Adda. A traveling band of qawaals, gave me refuge and adviced me to change my route and travel with them to Mirpurkhas. They left me with Zaqir Chisti at a durgah. A few days later he pointed me in the direction of Gardabad, saying it is a big city and far, and I would be able to start a new life there.

Kala Putther is where I met Akhil. I had made it there thanks to the Rabaris who move through the Rann. They dropped me off near the mountain at dawn and asked me to wait out the scorching sun.

The Gadoy clansmen caught up with me as I slept in the rocks. Before I could react two of them tore off my clothes and forced me down. The third raped me. My memory of that incident is that of blood. Akhil had appeared silently from the shadows and had been merciless with them. He cut them into little pieces and threw them to the birds. Then, we sat atop a rock silently looking towards the city. Akhil had cried.

Later that night he took me home and gave me his bed. I don't remember him speaking I think he was still in pain and shock. He had later confessed that it was the first time he had killed anyone. On the third day, he told me that I could stay here as long as I wanted and no one would harm me. That evening we feasted on some rum, khichdi and tandoori chicken. We both got drunk and told each other our stories. He was gypsy too from the Lambani tribe. I knew that day that this man was my soul mate.

He gave me the name Neela, meaning the Blue One. He said it was in respect for my father’s tribe. He explained that the name change was important to hide my identity; the desert routes passed much information. I dyed my hair dark and assumed the appearance of a Hindu married woman and took Akhil’s name.

My baby survived the rape. When he was born, Akhil likened him to Krishna saying this baby was meant to live. We decided to name him Kris, short for Krishna, the Blue God.

A year later I started work for a small bank down the street. Akhil had encouraged me to study accountancy. He reasoned that was one profession that people would always have a need for. Occasionally, he would ask me to look into some client’s worth. I could never say no to him. It was not my position to question his motives. I owed Akhil much. He had given Kris and me, our lives.

Then, five days ago, Rupert had called me at work and said, “…Akhil is down on a knee.” That was code that I retreat to the safe house on the West side. I did.

The next day I went back at night to get Kris’s soldier toy, he had been crying all day, that’s when they waylaid us. Kris got separated in the commotion and I lost him.

I saw the man who took my child. Babu is what he calls himself now, but I recognised him from a picture my father had brought back from the Romany Congress in 1971. They had pictures of him circulated with all the gypsy tribes. He is a Sinti legend: The looter of the Treasury at Petra. An intelligent and cruel man. He had married into the Al-Khalifa family with his wealth, and then disappeared with theirs shortly afterwards. He was then known as Sultan Zaiwanul.








* Fiction.


(c) arjun chandramohan bali

Peter Jackson's King Kong

Much will be said about this film. There will also be people who will love it or hate it. Armchair critics will find loop-holes and film directors and writers will stand and speak their minds but no one will be able to deny that Peter Jackson has given us an experience; a ride we will not forget in a long time.

I had 'issues' with LOTR and wondered what Peter Jackson would do with King Kong. I am not disappointed at all. The film is beautiful and worth every paisa of the admission ticket and the money you would spend eating popcorn.

Set in 1933, the year of the original King Kong movie, Peter takes you quickly through an introduction of the times. In flash cuts he wraps up the Great Depression, the hunger, the Prohibition, the poverty and then lands you smack in the middle of Vaudeville in New York City. Then begins an adventure filled with lies, deceit, magic, humour and romance to the un-charted island and the discovery and the return.

An out of work actress, a mad film director in search of the elusive hit, a desperate but talented writer, a steamer boat captain who treads the wrong side of law, a Hollywood action hero almost like the Llion from the Wizard of OZ, a mumbling cook with an attitude, along with a cast of thousands support the giant ape in this roller coaster adventure.

Cinematography by Andrew Lesnie is lyrical and in complete harmony with this story. He understands and treads the line between being labeled 'art-house' and 'mainstream'. He brings the miniatures, the CGI and the locations alive and under the believable umbrella. He had worked with the director on LOTR.

Film editing by Jamie Selkirk is a treat to watch. He hits the highs and lows and uses his grammar to the maximum. Yes, this film goes across a lot of genres. The midsection on skull island, I would have wished it to be shorter but am almost sure that it was not his call.
I can understand the director's need to introduce us to the other 'big' characters but it somehow reeks of studio intervention.

Original music by James Newton Howard
Mel Wesson (additional music)
Mel Wesson (ambient music)
What can I say! It is an epic and so is the music.

Production design by Grant Major
Art direction by Simon Bright & Dan Hennah
Set decoration by Dan Hennah
Costume design by Terry Ryan
This talented team is so responsible for the look of the film. Though, I would like to add the entire special effect and CGI team to this. All of them are absolutely the best. Watch out for the Oscars and Golden Globes this year. This film will sweep all of them.

Peter Jackson adds wonderful little details from the 1933 film that inspired him. The hat in the restaurant sequence worn by Naomi Watts is similar to the one worn by Faye Wray in the original. The camera carried by the film crew in the film is the same as that used for filming the original 1933 classic. I think I could go on and on about every department of the film, it does demand it but will keep it short.

Few minor quibs, very minor and please do overlook them:
The fact that there remains only one large primate - Peter Jackson does leave clues to that by leaving skeletons in the cave and probably the reason for Kong's loneliness.
The quick disappearance of the native tribe and why do they gave sacrifices only to Kong?
The way long mid-section dealing with the land of the 'Big';
The return of the Ventura crew with Kong, how? Etc...

Another thing my mind fought with was the way the dialogues were spoken: they sounded clichéd and stilted. I am not sure if the director did that on intent or was that the way it was spoken in 1933.
Or is this his tribute to B movies?
I am a bit lost on that but would take the B movie route as the answer.

Special mention for actor Andy Serkis (Gollum) who returns now as Kong's facial expression; the CGI dept. used over a hundred sensors on his face to re-create Kong’s. He also gives a mind-boggling performance as a cliched Lumpy the Cook.

Jack Black as the maverick director is exceptionally good and will attain greater heights in his career.
Adrien Brody, who I loved in The Pianist, is an actor I would kill to work with. Inshallah!

And the woman you will love for years to come: Naomi Watts. She rises to the occasion. An absolutely stunning performance. Her Vaudeville had this kong completely rapt in attention. Few scenes:
A) The Vaudeville performance for Kong. The cuts to close up, sigh! I could fall in love with her.
B) Her reaction after she crosses the drawbridge with Driscoll.
C) Walking in the middle of the road in Manhattan towards Kong.
D) When she and Kong 'talk' on top of the empire state building.
E) Not in order; but the restaurant sequence and her practiced introduction on the steamer boat and her first meet with Driscoll.
Okay, I admit, I might be in love.

Lastly, and I am sticking my neck out. If you thought Gone with the Wind was the best film romance you ever saw, then pause, re-think that one. King Kong is one of the finest romances you will ever see.

There is a reason I chose to be a film maker, a storyteller and a writer and I think it was because of movies like King Kong and the various cinema adventures I saw as a child. This film is truly in the Zone. The magic of cinema.



Acknowledgements: IMDB for tech team details

to write, you need

to tell stories
or you might burst
paper, pen or a laptop
as if, it were an addiction

yoga

an eye for the bad
the good
and most importantly
the grey

murder

a love for words and
their cosmic dance

deceit

hurt, pain, loads of love
a passion for life
and everything it throws
at you

lies

a smile and a tear
a dark heart of gold

more yoga

a need to experience everything
once, twice, aw! all the time

mirchi pickle in mustard sauce

arrogance only if
coated in humility

papadams

meet aliens
at your doorstep
as if it happened
all the time

tight underwear

have sex atleast once
on the beach
to understand sand

been to a morgue lately?

fears: don't forget them
little monsters you know
fairies, goblins, elves
chudails and their cousins

a friendly personality

essential: a schizophrenic existence
walk an imaginary pet
or friend in the park
conversations with self
are normal

the ability to talk to strangers

wax your legs
if you are a guy
hairy underarms
natural eyebrows
as a style statement
if you are not

pranayams: they ease the pain

an education
if you want to be a writer
none, if you are a storyteller

finally, get a muse
then nothing matters






© arjun chandramohan bali

Treadmill

i got a label:
on my shoes, sweat pants, tee and the headband
colour cordinated
thirty minutes a day
on a walking machine
that measures
and monitors
my breath, my pace, my heartbeat, my love-life;
walking brisk
watching tv
discussing stocks
and the latest episode
of some woman's mother-in-law
breathing climate control
behind sheets of glass
that keep the biosphere out,
then i move
towards shiny metal
torture machines
i twist, i turn, i flex, i fume;
i nod a hi
to the sixteen year old
ms.perfect designer body
she chitchats about
her botox, her tummy tuck, her enhancements, her parents' divorce;
larger than life
from behind her
arnold the groper
smiles back
a two dimensional pose;
a sweaty drop
teases my forehead
i pause, i think
does this exercise
pump up my heart?

hmmm

it has to.
i did pay
for it.

Nargarh

eyes reduced to slits

a storm hovers on
a sentinel I stand

fingers spread
into the wind electric
sparks fly off their tips, rain
approaches Jaipur

Ahmedabad

carved furniture
sand in crevices
open a door to heat

Maati-----------music video

Living

you
breathe in
my blush
to exhale
a fresco

bated breath

i
change
colours

Then n now

Awake, I search
you did not sleep
in our bed, again

Perceptions

Her story
His version
And then the Truth

Agastya hears a voice

Agastya crawled under the barbed wire and walked to the tree. The few times he had walked past the house behind the fire station he had heard the purple flowers on the small white tree call out to him. The tree seemed to be in pain today. He put his arms around the smooth bark and hugged it. He stood there with his arms around the tree for almost fifteen minutes till the voices calmed down.

“Agastya, thank you. I really needed that.” She spoke softly, gently and with what seemed like an old accent. "You can speak to me in your thoughts. It is like magic."

“I could hear you but I was not too sure. Are you a tree?”

“You could say that. My name is Kye-Asha. I am a spirit and I live in this kind tree. I once lived in that hill yonder and played in this garden...many centuries ago. But that is a long story. Fate, it had something else in store for me and I came to live in the tree. Agastya, I have waited for you a long time to talk to you before I go to my creator. Will you take this leaf and put it in your mouth. Do not chew it. Let it dissolve in your mouth.”

A bright green leaf floated down towards Agastya.

“Now come here, I have something to tell you.”


to be continued...


© Arjun Chandramohan Bali. 2005

Flash

“Hey! Lady, You, yes… you… in the yellow dress, please get back into the queue if you need your lunch. I do not have all day.”

“Sorry Ma’am…Is that Jeff Bridges?”

“Yes”

“Californian men are so cool”

The cook scrapes the unit goulash on my tray.

This is so exciting. It is my first big Hollywood film. It is about a giant gorilla in NYC. I got a nice ‘walk in’ part. The Assistant Director said he would put me in the front. There might be a line too.

A little distance away from the hollywood stars, under some tree shade, I find myself a spot on the art department planks. It is a warm day.

Wow! There is Jessica Lange. She is quite a looker. She is from Cloquet, Minnesota. I think we are the same size. Maybe I should audition to be her body double and do stunts. She has been lucky, her first break and that too a big one. There are so many famous people here. I read about them in the magazines. I can hear them talk. The director John Guillermin is sitting with Carlo; he is some famous Italian guy who made this huge giant mechanical ape. Then there were problems with what Carlo had made and Rick the make-up guy designed a real nice and cheap monkey suit.

Oh, there comes Rick in his funny suit without the mask.
“Hey gorgeous, enjoying the lunch? Oh, please feed me or get ready for some monkey business.” The director and Carlo turn to look.

“RICKKKIEEE! Watch out! Duck!!!” I scream as I see a crane arm swinging towards Rick’s head. I throw my tray to the side and jump off the planks to a tearing sound.

Rick goes down on all fours. The crane misses his head by a breath. I raise my hand to my forehead and sigh in relief. A terrifying moment has passed.

Somebody starts clapping. I look around. They are all looking at me. The whole unit is looking at me. Everybody is clapping.

YIKES!!!!!! I AM NAKED.

The yellow dress is hanging from a nail on the plank. I am standing in the middle of a NY street with just my panties and heels for company.

“Nice threads honey! Real nice!” I hear a unit hand say. A few whistles go off from the guys on the floor above.

“Peace on you, brother!” I smile back and walk towards the dress. I am trembling. Sometimes I wonder why I fell for this whole ‘burn your bra’ thingy.

Jesus, this is so embarrassing. I cover myself with the dress. I think I just gave red color a new definition. I must be a lobster.

“Hi, that was a very brave thing you just did. I am John.” He extends his hand out.

“Hi…I …I… Kelly Nichols,” I stutter back “Rick is a friend.”
John thumps his chest, “Ha! Ha! I meant the slow casual walk back to the dress. You kept your humor. Ha! Ha!”

_______________________________

© Arjun Chandramohan Bali. 2005


Mini biography (curtsey: imdb and others)
Kelly aka Marianne Walter, started her career as a nude model in the late 1970s. After she was selected as a Penthouse Pet of the Month, she began her career in the adult film business. This career move started just as the porn industry was changing the availability from adult theatres to the privacy of home video. She is remembered as a hard worker in the industry.

Much before this, she had a small part (uncredited) in King Kong (1976).

Fiction. This could have happened.

The Moon Comes Calling

“I love you” he pauses, smiles and looks at me with those deep brown eyes.“Love you love you love you love you, love, love, love, love, love, you, you, you…”
Khusro, drawing little circles with his finger on my stomach, leans and kisses the side of the navel without breaking eye contact.
I run my finger on his right eyebrow. “Darling, I need to get some work done. I will be back early. You be good.” I get up from the bed and walk towards the old almirah next to the bedroom door.
“Oh baby! You are so beautiful. I hate it when you leave.” He turns onto his stomach and stretches. “Babes, will you get fresh bread from the bakery in the morning?” he flops back onto his back.
“Hmmm” I slip into my work clothes. Black: lace underwear, Mango jeans with the Prada full-sleeved shirt. The solitaire glints back from behind the collar. No make up except the red lip liner and a little lipstick brushed on. Hair blow-dried. I drape the Armani leather jacket over my shoulders.
I am ready.
_______________________

I hate the lift. I hate this one in particular. I hate reflective surfaces. I searched the entire city for the right apartment. When I moved in, they had those lovely hand cranked, collapsible grill shutter ones. Then the management decided to change them to the hi-tec German Schindler lifts.
I moved into the Moskva few months ago. I love this place. The river is right next to it. I got one of those service apartments on the higher floors. The locals call the building one of ‘Stalin’s Seven Sins’. There are seven of these beautiful buildings here.
Andre found it for me. Nice, polite, Andre with manicured hands. He used to call me Roma. He said I reminded him of those exotic gypsy women. I would laugh and tell him that I was a gypsy. I had Indian and East European blood running thru my veins, amongst other things. He disappeared from my life very soon after. They are all the same.
The lift door opens; one of the hotel Babushkas is swabbing the floor. She looks me up and down, shrugs, moves ahead with her bucket. I walk a little softly. The stiletto sound on granite floors gives me goose flesh.
I feel the rush of blood to my cheeks as the October wind meets me outside the rotating glass doors. I like the cold in the air. It reminds me of home, childhood. I see the moon go behind the cloud. A tourist boat glides by. I raise my hand for a taxi.
A cream Lada pulls up. I get into the back. The driver is an old Georgian man with a beard. He is playing Hindi film songs on his beat up scratched Sanyo.
“Pink Cadillac, next to Vakhtangov Theater and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs” I tell him the name of the new lounge.
I could have walked. It is only ten minutes away but tonight I wish to indulge myself.
He makes eye contact with me in the large rear view mirror. He is trying to figure out if I too am Georgian. His eyes come to a stop at my cleavage. I can read his mind. He is thinking that no good Muslim girl would show half her breast.
“Hon, if you give me a blow job, I will be your driver for the evening,” he says in thick Russian with a smile.
I smile back at him, “Baba, why don’t you go home and give your loving to the nice woman who gave birth to your three sons.” The truth and my answer in chaste Azeri stumps him. He drives looking straight after that.
_________________________

He is here. I spot him in the first second across the cavernous hall.In the left corner, he sits with his back towards the door observing everyone in the wall mirror. The huge emerald ring looks nice as he brings up his hand to the cigar. The other hand is on Casper’s back as she gives him a lap dance but his eyes lock with mine.
I like eyes. My father in his last letter to my mother wrote “…the child is beautiful. She has her grand-mother’s eyes. They are windows to her soul, her eyes will give her away.” Something like that he had written.
I turn to the bar and catch Pyotr’s attention. He smiles back and gives me a shot of Danska Pepper.
I feel a movement behind. A moist warm mouth nibbles at my earlobe. Ohhhh! You are here!
He holds me from the waist and starts to sway with me to the music. Then I hear his voice,
“My blood's aflame! Desire and yearning
Overwhelm me: stung this heart of mine.
O kiss me, love! Your kisses burning
Are sweeter far than myrrh or wine.
Lay your head, dear one, on my breast,
And blithe and happy will I rest
Till the first breath of cheerful day
The shades of night time drives away.”
“Pushkin…” I turn my face towards him. He cuts me off with long, moist kisses. Casper, from the other side of the hall, looks in my direction .
“Hi! sweetie, nice to see you. I thought you had forgotten me and would not keep the date tonight. You look special. Did you miss me?” he kisses me again.
I look at him. He has such a powerful effect on me. Why do I love you so much? Why are we like this? I feel weak in front of him. “I…I…could not keep away…” I stutter.
“I know, my love. You are my love… are you not?” he runs his fingers in my hair and kisses me again. “Come, we must not waste time. Let us head to your hotel.”
________________________

I slide out of my clothes and get into bed with Khusro. He sleeps like a baby. I lick his ear. He likes that. I can see him stirring. I get on top of him. He opens his eyes and smiles sleepily at me. He enters.
“ohhh! Khusro, my Jaan, you beautiful man…yes…” I kiss him. We rock in this position as lovers. I see a shadow move at the periphery of my vision. I close my eyes.
A bone crunching sound, a hiss of escaping gasses, Khusro stops. I feel him inside. His eyes open wide. The mouth opens in a smile. He clenches me hard. I open my eyes. A thin stream of blood comes out of the corner of Khusro’s mouth, he has no idea what has happened.
Behind Khusro, I see Him smile. He is here on the bed with us. He takes a bite of Khusro’s beating heart and offers it to me.
Powerless, I look at him; I bite into the beating heart.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! I love you, princess, I really do. Ha! Ha! Ha! See you around.” Holding the heart he runs towards the open window, a smooth step on the sill and with the grace of an Olympian diver, he takes off.
I am shaking. I am angry. He killed my Khusro. I yell out of the window to the awakening city and to the only man I can love, “Vlad, I hate you!”

© Arjun Chandramohan Bali.

Blue & Silver kite

BLUE

Standing by the blue lights
Looking over a mass of heads
I find her at the concert

I run
I stumble
I squash a few toes

A smile, a giggle
My stomach churns
That beautiful knotty empty feeling

The smell of her nape
The warmth of the hug
The lights dim down

Pagan Baul courts us
A gateway lights up
She fills my senses

A boat with fairy lights
Goes past
Shaking us in its wake

She gets up and walks
Away
A bit
Slowly
My phone beeps
“Lovely evening na…”

A connection made
The music plays
In our hearts

Standing by the blue lights
Looking over a mass of heads
I lose her at the concert


© Arjun Chandramohan Bali. 2005




SILVER KITE

“Left of the blue lights”
The message beeps
My head turns
I smile
He is here!

I hope I look alright
I run
No! I walk
To the left of the blue lights

Should I hug him?
Kiss him?
Or just shake hands?

My heart races
My skin tingles
There he is

Ohhh! he smells nice
A heartbeat
A hand squeeze
Smiles exchanged

Why do I see you so less?
You look older from the year gone by
The Baul sings about his home

We sit
We listen

Our hearts meet
And feet

You dance
I sway

A happy moment in time
A silver kite glides in the night sky

My dream breaks
My heart aches
I get up to go away

I walk
A bit slowly
And turn
Left of the blue lights

© Arjun Chandramohan Bali.

Walk

A brown dog on leash
runs off into the middle
of traffic. Screeching tyres
Blood. I stand frozen
A green light winks
"walk"



(c) arjun chandramohan bali.2005.

Excerpts from the diary of Rani Joshi

Tuesday: 24th August.

6:35 am. I woke up. Looked in the mirror, smiled and wished myself a happy day.

7:15 am. I am ready, fresh as a flower with the wheat-flakes in my stomach, waiting for dad to give me a ride to the train station.

7:28 am. On the train to college: Smita, Angel, Aruna and I discuss quickly the bio experiment for the day. Thank God, we are all good students. I hate it when I am not prepared. Smita tells us about the person who had come to see her yesterday. We all lectured her how arranged marriages are fine but please do it after you graduate. She smiled at us. I think she will have kids before we graduate. Both of us were in similar shades of pink. I borrow Angel’s purple and black scarf to drape on my shoulders, so that we look a bit different. Told the girls that tomorrow we will wear the colours of our birthstone. Angel and mine is the same so I told her I will wear white (dear diary remind me to wash the white bra out tonight.)

4:12 pm. the practicals just finished. I did well. *smiles*. Should I become a doctor? Naaa! I think I will do a PhD. and teach. This nation of ours needs teachers.

7:30 pm. We had an awesome dinner. Mom had made ‘gatte’. I am going for the 9.30 p.m. movie with my cousin Priya and her boy friend Aziz.

Wednesday: 25th August.

1:30 am. It is sooooooooo late. Lovely movie. Saw ‘Mughal-e-Azam’. Nice colours. I think I should study chemistry and something to do with colours. I saw Priya and Aziz kiss twice and they were holding hands throughout. God, she should concentrate on studies. Nighty-night!

6:35 am. I woke up. Looked in the mirror, smiled and wished myself a happy day. Hurry hurry hurry

7:15 am. I am ready, fresh as a flower with the wheat-flakes in my stomach, waiting for dad to give me a ride to the train station. I can see Sharma Uncle watering the plants in his balcony. Sharma Aunty is sooo beautiful. She walks out and hands him a cup of tea. Dad is here.



4:30 pm. Diary, my head has been rushing. I do not know what is happening. I missed the 7:28-fast for the first time this year. I ran to the next platform and the Borivili fast was just exiting. I ran. I ran fast to catch it. There was no way I could miss Mrs. Ranganathan’s class.
The train had gathered speed. I think I was running and yelling in frustration. I felt a tug. A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me in. it was scary. My heart skipped a beat.
It took me a few seconds to calm down. I was in the train. It was packed. I was in the general section. I was in tight press against a yellow T-shirt. I looked up. He smiled at me. He has such beautiful brown eyes.
The crowds pressed us closer together. He smelt incredibly nice in this congested compartment. I had my hands in between him and me, all tightly rolled up and in a fist. I relaxed.
“Hi! I hope I did not startle you. I saw you running and knew you had to be on the train. I hope I did not yank you too hard. I am Samir.”
I smiled at him. He has such kind eyes, “…ah…ah…thank you! Sorry, I am a bit shaken… I am Rani…hi...”
The crowd pushed us closer together. I could feel him against me. He turned me around so that my back could be against the dividing wall. He put his arms on both sides of me to protect me. Diary, I think I preferred the earlier arrangement. Ha! Ha! I think I am going mad.
We spoke for the next twenty minutes as if there was no tomorrow. I do not think I have ever spoken so much to a complete stranger. He felt so good to talk to...sigh!
I got off at Marine lines. He had to go further. I waited. I thought he might get off. Just when the train was about to leave the platform I saw a hand, his hand, come out and wave.
Diary, I have been feeling so good today. He felt so right. Cannot get my mind off him. He felt so good.

9:30 pm. I am tired. Will write tomorrow. Had many chores to do today. I think I will wear my yellow kurta tomorrow.

© 2004.Arjun Chandramohan Bali

the little box

i can smell you
still in that little box
of dead flowers

Swades: random thoughts in motion blur

let us begin with the most basic question:

did you like it?

i, for one, wanted to go out and hug Ashutosh for giving India the best year end gift!

the look/art: Hmmm, Bhanu Athiya does a good job. the clothes look authentically Indian (though they do not subscribe to any particular region) but then remember that this is a pan-India mainstream film!
(on a recent visit to interior Karnataka and Tamilnadu i did notice a lot of the younger women/girls were in Salwar Kameezes...huh? did i think i was in Punjab? no!)
similar comment for the village. it was a pleasure to see such a wonderful location. the straight horned Maharashtra cows could have been avoided.

story/screenplay/style: i liked the whole NRI (return of brain-drain) having call of the motherland bit. and then loved the way Ashutosh calls him Mohan. ah ha! there was a Mohan (the bald one) a few decades ago, who came back from across the seas and went on a journey into Indian hinterland, met landless labourers and the poor. and a changeover had happened! do you remember that Mohan?

screenplay: hmmm...bit too long. the Dusshera Bhajan is wonderful music but by now my attention was diverted towards the hard seat i sat on. Ashutosh lost his audience big time here. as he did in the beginning when much English dialogue happened in the NASA sequence. though that was completely justified.

style of film making: you know what? i liked the slow pace a lot. i liked the fact it was not overtly dramatic. does cinema have to be dramatic always? hmmm, but then it is. not ott dramatic.
though i thought the electricity sequence was a bit over
the 25 paisa water was nice
the journey was nicer.
the fact, he refuses the us citizenship.

camera work: Mahesh Aney approaches the frame wonderfully. liked the framing: straight and simple( musaffir, the previous week, had killed me with the overdone DI job).

Hahn! then comes the music. Rahman is god! really!
the songs are stunning.the 'Yeh Tara' song is beautiful. loved the choreography. completely natural. 'Yeh Jo Des Hai Tera' will haunt people for a long time. but his triumph is the background score. it was wonderful. understated. beautiful.

now i must tell you what i really liked. haha...yes, it is time.
firstly, SRK acts! he looks the part and enjoys the part. and he gives Aamir a run for his money. SRK finally silences his critics.
two thumbs up, dude.
Gayatri Joshi is gorgeous and holds her ground as an actor.
the people i saw the movie with were not convinved about her look. tcha, rubbish.
now, there are gorgeous women who are city bred working with NGO's in villages, who do dress up and put on lipstick. why does this role have to be played by a Smita Patil or Deepti Naval? (no offence, i would happily date those two women).
a special mention for the dhoti sequence. it is one of the most romantic scenes i have seen in years. (did someone smirk?)
the characters are clichéd...so?
we have them everywhere, though the AbdulKalam-SadhuVaswani haircut was a bit much.

story predictable? i do not think so.
it was researched and executed fairly well.
swades made me remember the cinema from Russia/Cuba/Yugoslavia.
the whole socialist approach worked for me. do you remember 'Naya Daur'?
this kind of popular cinema died years ago.
take a bow, Mr. Gowariker. you are a brave man.

and thank you for not giving me: heaving bosoms, g-strings, chiffon saree's and item numbers. i wish the film works at the box.

will it win an Oscar? Hmm...no.

p.s.
1. the trickling waterfall could have been a bit bigger...
2. there is an item number: SRK bathes twice. bare-chested.

Written On The Forehead

The warriors walk slowly leaving Parth on a simmering pyre at the edge of Deo Ghat. Ganga stretches her fingers and in reverence touches the remains of the old warrior. Ravi sinks quietly in its daily journey over the horizon. The cycle is continuous.

Crouching close to the ground a tall form runs towards the burning embers. A stumble, a small sound, the crows fly off. Turning around quickly she rises with her sword drawn. Her hair is short like a man’s, and her face is still wet from the blood of the man who fooled her father to his death.

The last bit of golden sunlight glints off her silver breastplate. She scoops the ash from what had been her father’s feet touches a bit to her forehead and lowers her head in reverence. From the other side of the ghats a woman wails for her love. She scoops more of the hot ash and rubs it all over her face. A glint in the grey and another in the sky. Lashing out with her sword she cuts the hovering crow in half. A gold signet ring lies in the ash.

She picks up the ring with her sword and smiles on recognising her family’s insignia. Lips thin, teeth clenched, she presses the glowing ring to her forehead. The smell of her freshly burnt skin loses its way in the burning ghats. Her pain is a proud one. From today she will have a name. A name...

© arjun chandramohan bali

Sunlit memories of another age

There are no sounds. The yellow silk embroidered curtains lift playfully and dance to a silent song till one end gets caught in the grill. Now they pretend to be sails. A brocaded pink wedding saree lies torn in a patch of sunlight on the bed. A small boy in a white T is sways from the window grill. He looks like me.

With both my feet on the sill I lean back stretching my arms. Ma looks distraught. She is saying something. The cupboard door hangs from the lower hinges. She points towards a long bamboo lying on the bed. Then she bends down and picks the radio off the ground. The glass display is shattered web cracked; a haunting Bengali song plays from it. As Ma turns the radio in her hands it changes to news. She looks beautiful. She walks towards the phone and hand cranks it to the Army exchange.
She turns to look at me. Her eyes have been crying.

Dad leaves early in the mornings. There is a war on. Yesterday, we had spent three hours in the trenches. Ma had said I behaved well. Unlike Didu who during the last war would eat mud in the trench and Tony would scare the neighbours by making siren sounds.

The MP’s arrive in a few minutes. They are tall.

an introduction is in order:


died
jesus in kashmir
and mary in muree...

bin laden is the mute saint
of benares and saddam is &
as a hollywood extra...

aliens built pyramids for the exiled
brahmins who were called pharoes...
the V1 and V2 rockets were designed
by scientists who later consulted
with hindustan aeronautics...

in goa, charles sobhraj and i smoked cigarettes...
a plaque that protected horses on a stable
in Nikko-Japan became more famous as gandhiji's
see-hear-speak no evil three monkey's

my great great grandfather-mehta ram ghor
was a mercenary. he fought battles in iran
afghanistan and mongolia; his grandson
became a priest...my granpa joined the police...
and this was much before hindi cinema

reality is what we believe
schrodinger's cat?!
ha

till then...