Emerging from 'Hamnet'

 

She of Nature and He of Art - it’s inevitable that they collide.

Nature is wild and generous beyond boundaries.

Art is selfish, yet without guile or malice.

Nature seems unbreakable, but when she breaks it's loud and unforgiving.

Art takes everything from Nature, but when he gives back, it's redemptive; elevating the physical to metaphysical on this mortal stage.

She of Nature and He of Art - it’s inevitable that they create life together.

And where there is life, there is its end.

In Hamnet, the end is so crippling, it threatens to destroy both Nature and Art. But they sustain, because the thread that connects them never severs, despite the storm. 

Chloe Zhao and Maggie O’ Farrell navigate the storm with such intuitive deftness it feels as if all of the world's philosophies are moving through them. The film is soft and deep, nurturing grief as it takes root in every character - in Agnes, Will, his mother and the children. It makes you stay in moments so stretched - so real - it's as if time has come undone then rewoven itself to give breaking hearts all the room in the world to crumble, then reassemble.

The first time I watched Hamnet, I couldn’t drag myself away from Jessie Buckley’s Agnes. But the second time, I saw Will’s ache, his battle with himself and finally, the non-negotiable surrender to art; a pull for which Agnes expands space. How unfair, then, that her own primal need to return to the forest is never honoured. But Art sees all. 

Will's atonement? Pressing the full might of his art into rescuing Agnes from drowning. His Hamlet laid at her feet, love’s ultimate offering, so that she can bid goodbye to her son by witnessing, through the play, that grief isn't the only thing death brings, it's also freedom. 

In the end, both Art and Nature work together to restore Agnes’ knowing back to her, back home where it belongs. If that won't split you open in a cinema hall full of strangers weeping with you, nothing will.

- Hamnet, 2025

Dance

Dance around the empty page as if it were a wild animal ready to lunge.

Staying still is effective. Sometimes climbing a tree. Sometimes trusting that it won’t care to devour you.

Dance around the empty page like Ali.

Be masterful in technique and quick on your feet. Anticipate, shuffle & weave. Your words, your swirling thoughts - align them into one deft move. Wait until the moment’s right. Ding, ding, ding. It could all be over in a flash.

Dance around the empty page like an unsure contestant on a reality show. 
Carry your hopes & ambitions on your back. Don’t let them weigh you down. Be light. Own the stage. You won’t know if it’s your day until you’re in the spotlight. Hope like hell it is.

Dance around the empty page like it’s a ritual, dark art.

It might fold itself into precise linearity, building itself up to be the sharpest of scalpels, designed to pierce your many skins and make your insides spill out. It might hurt.

Dance around the empty page like it’s home.

Open secret doors that only you know exist. Search fearlessly in hidden corners. Sashay & swing from the rafters. Know that its beams will hold you. You are safe.

http://mohiniyattamdance.blogspot.in/2012/03/mudras-hand-gestures-in-mohiniyattamii.html

Plagiarism

Last night you were in a dream
sitting at my desk writing furiously
I leaned over your shoulder
memorised the words, believing
when I woke up they would be mine
But something happened in the flash between sleep and waking
You left with your sheaf of papers
Dribbles of drying ink
trailing in your wake
Now I sit at my desk with wisps of words remaining
I must sleep again and hope
you visit once more

7.07.17

I made a thing. It's not a great thing but it's mine and after 17 years in the dungeons of broadcast TV, I felt like the soon-to-be Count of Monte Cristo.

Watch on that other blog of mine: https://aquaticstaticsings.wordpress.com/2017/07/07/7-07-17/

The Diet

Doctor, can you help me shed this weight?

Oprah says it’s all the feelings I ate

But it might be the opposite

I didn’t

Digest it all

I heard my voice the other day

Played back to me

It played so different from what I’d hoped

It was crushed under a house

Reaching out

As if

It knew it had a chance

Still

If I open my throat out a little more

Sound out

Round out the words a little more

Maybe I will hear myself

And feel my weight

Instead of eating these things to remind me

I am here

I exist

I am heavy

click them heels, you wicked thing, we know you're in there

Mrs. Dhillon

Fine, Mrs. Dhillon said, I’ll buy the flour myself.

She knew no one was listening. Her husband Jeetu was bent over his computer keyboard. Minty was holed up in her room and as if that weren’t separation enough, she had her plugged her ears with that angry music. So Mrs. Dhillon sighed a big sigh that no one heard and made her way to Madaan General Stores for the second time that day.

It was not a good day by any stretch of imagination. And that was just the weather. Mrs. Dhillon cursed her polyester salwar-suit as she valiantly tried to wipe the sweat dripping down the side of her forehead, stopping to sting her eyes before heading further south. But unless the day presented her with a tornado of fiery hail, nothing was about to deter her from the mission at hand.

Except that now she’d have to face Mr. Teji Madaan for the second time that day. Curse him for forgetting to put the atta into her shopping bag. I swear he does this on purpose…just to…just to…piss me off. Isn’t that the word Minty always flings at her? This food pisses me off, this house pisses me off, you piss me off. Mr. Teji’s crooked grin is upon her too soon.

“Teji ji. Once again you have forgotten to put full items. Please, quickly give the atta.”

“Arey, Mrs. Dhillon, good way to meet twice in one day, no? Nowadays who has the time to do their own shopping? They all send their boys. Just last month, I had to hire another chhottu because of all the home delivery calls. But these chhottus, I tell you. They want full-day salary for half-day work. Smoking and spitting and pissing just anywhere…”

There was that word again – ‘piss’. Maybe one of these days she would get through an entire day without having that vile syllable hurled at her. “Yes, yes. Of course, I understand. Yes, yes, thank you so much Teji ji. Ok then. Bye. Bye.” Mrs. Dhillon decisively brought Mr. Madaan’s rant to an end. The day wasn’t getting any cooler and now there was this 5kg sack of flour to haul up two flights of stairs.

“Hai rabba!” Thud. “Hai Rabba!” Thud. “Hai Rabba!” Thud. With every stair that she dragged the flour sack up, Mrs. Dhillon’s chappals were showered with white dust. At the first floor landing, she herself fell, thud, on the stairs and sat there heaving and wheezing, wiping her brow with her ineffective dupatta. Her hand rose to her chest and she focussed on steadying her breath. Why had Aman done this? Mrs. Ahluwalia from next door had told her not to get too upset – “These bacche, Kulwinder, they will do whatever they want. How can you stop them? Especially when they are so far away.” But still, thought Mrs. Dhillon, I am his mother. I have done nothing but support him. Even when Jeetu threw a fit about film school, she had been there, refereeing between father and son. The least she’d deserved was fair warning.

“Ma!”

Mrs. Dhillon snapped out of her thoughts. Minty was standing behind her, one step up, white earphones streaming down her ears. Can’t remember the last time she was without those infernal appendages.

“What are you doing? You’re blocking the whole stairway!” Minty scowled and then leapt over her mother and the 5kg sack. “I’ll be back before dinner.” Mrs. Dhillon knew better than to ask her teenage daughter where she was going. At least, she knew Minty was a girl of her word. If she said she’d be back before dinner, she’d be back.

She gets that from me, thought Mrs. Dhillon, as her daughter disappeared around the bend of the banister.   

************

            Aman and Chloe decided to celebrate at the spot where they first met. It was a humid, mildly uncomfortable July afternoon and only two other tables were occupied around the periphery at Bryant Park. They carried their sandwiches and waters to one of the free benches. They set their lunches down, looked at each other and burst into laughter.

            “A toast, Mrs. Dhillon,” Aman raised his bottle.

            “Congratulations, Mr. Bernard,” Chloe clinked her bottle against his.

Last week, lying in Aman’s arms, Chloe had confessed certainty that she’d found her prince after kissing a thousand frogs.

“A thousand!” Aman had exclaimed.

Now she took his face into her hands and kissed him lightly on the nose. He smiled naughtily and croaked, “Ribbid!”

            As the city boomed and rumbled around them, the two reclined on the bench, sipping their drinks and biting into their sandwiches. The surrounding high-rises seem to bend gently over them, forming a protective alcove; offering up an oasis of sense in an otherwise bewildering world.

*************

  Mrs. Dhillon had decided to throw a party. Nothing fancy, just a few relatives. Jeetu’s two sisters and their families, her brother Parmeet and his wife. Maybe Mrs. Ahluwalia. She’d told Minty she could invite her friends too but doubted anyone would show up. It’s ironic, she thought, how Aman had always been the easy one. It’d been Minty who gave Mrs. Dhillon sleepless nights with her dark moods. She barely had any friends besides Farhat, with whom she spent all her free time. The few times Farhat was over, the two girls would lock themselves in Minty’s room, chattering and laughing at god-only-knows what. Farhat, with her lily-white skin and Pathan height was a stunning girl. Well mannered too. Mrs. Dhillon just wished Minty had more friends. Sometimes she’d have nightmares that her only daughter would end up like Jeetu’s first cousin, Roop from Jalandhar. At 21, Roop had run away from home two nights before her wedding. Three years later she was traced to Gwalior, hair shorn, wearing oversized bush shirts and baggy trousers. She ran a paan shop and was living with a sullen, dark eyed woman called Kamal.

But Aman had surpassed Minty in giving his mother heartburn, leaving her with nothing to do but prepare a humble dinner for 15 odd guests. She cursed herself for not anticipating this day four years ago when Aman emailed to tell her about Chloe. He’d attached her photograph with the email. As the image inched down the screen, a skinny white girl emerged with dark brown hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. She was studying to be a lawyer and, he joked, would make enough money for both of them. Money, that Daddy was afraid he’d never make as a filmmaker. She’d laughed at the time and written back that Chloe was pretty.

The next time he called, she enquired after her, towards the end of the conversation. “And…how is Klo?” Aman had laughed out loud, wasting three expensive international dialling minutes before calming down. “Klo! That’s priceless! Babe, you’ll never guess what my mom just called you! Ma, she’s not Klo! Her name is Chlo-ee.” As Mrs. Dhillon bristled with embarrassment, Aman’s voice grew softer, “It’s okay Ma…Do you know what she called me when we first met? Aman Dylan. Like Bob Dylan! Wasn’t she silly?”

*********

            Once the decision to switch coasts was made, Aman & Chloe’s tiny apartment began to disappear into bubble wrap and cardboard boxes. Over the week before the move, the rooms progressively took on the monochromatic hue of beige walls. The young couple’s fingers were permanently anointed with black marker ink and every so often, the sound of sneezing could be heard from one of the two rooms. Every afternoon they would step out to the local deli but the nights were always spent at home. Sitting on cartons, eating pizza or Chinese takeout; then making love on the king-size mattress that stood out like an island of blue in a sea of light brown.

After the boxes were finally sent off, all that remained was a single potted fern. When Chloe watered it after sunset, Aman stopped her, “Mrs. Dhillon, what are you doing? Plants go to sleep after the sun goes down.”

She chuckled, “What?”

“Don’t laugh,” he said, “My mother taught me that.”

************

            Jeetu was being cooperative for once. He still wouldn’t speak directly to her. It had been 5 years since he’d done that and Mrs. Dhillon had stopped questioning what she’d done to send her husband into his silent rage. Just as long as he helped around the house once in a while. Just as long as he joined her in putting up a brave pretence on occasions like today. Everyone invited had turned up and had been seated in the living room. Jeetu was regaling them stories from his college days, laughing, refilling his guests’ drinks; reminding Mrs. Dhillon of the first coffee he’d taken her out for in ’75.

Mrs. Ahluwalia joined Mrs. Dhillon in the kitchen. One pair of hands rolled out the dough, while the other manned the stove, dropping paper-thin discs of flour into sizzling hot oil. As the discs rose into triumphant, glistening puffs, Mrs. Ahluwalia twittered on about her Dimple’s misadventures in Melbourne. Kulwinder made the appropriate noises of commiseration but couldn’t shake off the heaviness in her belly that had nothing to do with the dahi-aalu breakfast from morning.

            So when the phone rang, she immediately made for it, knowing it was imperative she reach it before anyone else did.

“Hello?”

“Hello, ma?”

“Beta Minty? What happened?”

“Uff! Why do you always think something’s happened?”

“Ok. Ok.”

“Accha so…don’t get angry ok? I need you to pick me up from the Grandex Mall.”

“I can’t right now, Minty. You know the party is happening, no? You promised you’d be here on time. Why can’t you take an auto? You need money?”

“I can’t just leave, ma. You have to come.”

“I told you, beta, I can’t leave the kitchen right now. All the guests are here. I’ll send Papa, ok?”

“No! Not him.”

Mrs. Dhillon took a long deep breath. Of course, something had happened. Of course, Minty needed her and not him. Of course, the only way she’d find out was if she went herself.

“Ok, I’m on my way.”

“Thanks Ma. Bring a couple of thousand.”

“What? Why?!”

But Minty had hung up. Mrs. Dhillon whipped off her oil-stained apron and went back into the kitchen. Assured of Mrs. Ahluwalia’s support in holding down the fort, she promised a detailed report on return, gathered her purse and rushed hurriedly out the door. Sprinting past a confused Jeetu and expectant guests, she tossed a flimsy excuse of needing to pick up chocolate ice cream from Mother Dairy.

**************

Minty and Farhat were located to a back room on the 2^nd floor of the Grandex Mall. The store manager, whose office it was, informed Mrs. Dhillon that the girls had been caught shoplifting a combo pack of M&S underwires amounting to Rs. 1149.

“You are lucky, Mrs. Dhillon”, said the store manager (who reminded her, suddenly, of her puffed up puris), “I didn’t report these girls to the police. Who knows what would happen to them in the lock-up? You hear such terrible stories nowadays. And I could tell they come from good families. Isn’t it, Mrs. Dhillon? Isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course”, she agreed, knowing that the appropriate mix of gratitude, apology & acknowledgement of his superiority would do the trick. Plus the cash, adding a 100% tip over the price of pilfered goods for the man’s uncommon sensitivity at keeping her humiliation to a bare minimum.

The ride back was silent. Mrs. Dhillon wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. The child confounded her. Her black depths scared and intimidated her. She didn’t know where to place her affection anymore with this one. Mrs. D kept her hands steady on the 10-2 position on the steering wheel. Her gaze unwavering from the view in front. As they drove past Madaan Stores, she passed Mr. Teji bringing down the shutter for the day. He waved a friendly wave that was not returned by either mother or daughter.

Back home, the three walked in with a story of co-incidental meeting at the street corner. Oh, how silly! Mrs. Dhillon had forgotten to buy the ice-cream. Jeetu stepped, grudging & grumping, into the night to locate the one general store still open past nine.

*************

            After the guests had gone, Jeetu retreated back into his virtual world and Minty & Farhat ferreted themselves away into her room. Mrs. Ahluwalia was sent off with a plateful of leftovers and a watered-down recap of the evening’s events. Alone in her bedroom, Mrs. Dhillon sat down with the telephone in her lap and dialled Aman’s number.

“Hello! Ma?”

“Hi, beta. Are you busy?”

“No, no, ma. Perfect timing. Chloe and I were just finishing breakfast.”

“Good. Good. You know we had a small party here. For you and Chloe. Everyone came. Parmeet Maama, Simran Aunty. They all send their love.”

“That was nice of them. I’ll upload pictures of the ceremony soon. You can send it to them.”

“Beta, can I speak to Chloe please?”

“Sure. One sec.”

Mrs. Dhillon took comfort from the sounds of the phone exchanging hands. In that moment, she wasn’t miles away from her son and his new family. She was there, watching the two exchange glances as Chloe took the phone, a bit nervously, rehearsing her opening lines. She heard Aman tell her about the party his mother had thrown in their honour that evening. She heard the involuntary intake of breath Chloe took before saying hello.

            The conversation was short, stretching the extent of Mrs. Dhillon’s spoken English to its limit. It was a slow, halting exchange of banal niceties with a valiant effort on both women’s part to infuse warmth into it. In the end, it was all too much with Chloe failing to understand the last thing said to her. She said goodbye and returned the phone to her husband.

            “I didn’t catch the last thing she said. Something in Hindi I think…”

            Aman took the receiver and asked his mother to repeat what she’d said. Then he smiled and telling her he loved her, hung up.

            “So? What did she say to me, huh?” Chloe enquired with a naughty grin. “Some ancient curse condemning the evil white woman to eternal damnation for stealing her son’s affections?”

            “She said ‘ Tumhey duniya ki har khushi miley. Mere hissey ki bhi’.”

“Which means?…”

Mrs. Dhillon, may you be blessed with all the happiness in the world – including my share.”

*************************************************************************

 This story was first published in 2010 in 'First Proof: The Penguin Book of New Writing'

Not Suitable For Adult Types

I was invited by the fabulous Miss Karina to contribute a Story For Thing.
I discovered that writing for kids can be life-saving - especially for curmudgeonly adults like me.

In the event that you start tiring of being a grown up, please take a moment to visit the blog.
It includes The Most Loved Girl In The World by yourstrooly.

Arthur Conan Doyle's Women

We interrupt the scheduled broadcast of 'Justin Bieber: This Is My World' to bring you this important fan-rave.

**********

Reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories has been a revelation in more ways than one. Especially how he depicts his women. So much is made of Irene Adler - 'The' Woman featured in 'A Scandal in Bohemia' - but there are many female characters across other stories, who (whom? - I never know) Holmes respects not just for their 'sensible' nature but also for their brand of instinct and logic. Holmes recognises feminine values and, driven by reason as he is, finds no need to dismiss them like others do unless given due cause.  His women are neither idealized archetypes nor irrelevant pieces of furniture. They're interesting, multi-layered with things to do in the story.

As one reads these stories, one is suddenly - and sadly - aware of how rare this attitude would've been in the 19th century and how it continues to be fairly uncommon in today's world as well.

(Also 1000 extra points for his views on race relations and class distinctions in 19th century England.) 

 **********

This Bieber documentary is delightful. I can imagine it being made by someone like this.

Obsessed

With

BBC One's Sherlock based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Mysteries
Image Courtesy 'Eat Sleep Draw'

Probably because

“The Implicit Holmes”, Edgar W. Smith, 1946

And then there is inspired retelling of the Holmes' mysteries in the modern age and the logic of why it needed to be done:

Mark Gatiss, writer of BBC One's 'Sherlock':
"This may sound like heresy but really it isn't. Although Steven and I are second to none in loving the flaring gas-lit atmosphere of a lovely old London, it felt as though Sherlock Holmes had become all about the trappings and not the characters.
Also, the original stories are models of their kind. Incredibly modern, dialogue-driven, fast paced and short! What better way to get back to the roots of these fantastic creations than to make Holmes and Watson living, breathing, modern men just as they had been originally?"

When I Die

A few days ago, I was watching 'Game of Thrones' and heard this gem of a line.
It's the most beautiful piece of screenwriting - a simple little thing, delicately constructed and spoken with devastating charm by a handsome devil of a man (seriously, you both loathe him and lust for him).
He's prisoner in an enemy camp and chained to a post. His fortunes have turned against him most radically.

Poor Evil Jaime Lannister

And almost as though he were lounging on a billion dollar yacht, he delivers the line that is going to be my epitaph:

"My life has left me uniquely unfit for constraint."

***************

More fancy British awesomeness: http://www.interviewmagazine.com/culture/hugh-laurie

Sahi

The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty.
~ John Steinbeck

Fiction writing which does not acknowledge the uncertainty of the narrator himself is a form of imposture.
~ W.G. Sebald

He Just Wanted To Be A Real Boy

Death Be Not Proud

Everytime someone like Christopher Hitchens dies, I panic as though the world is running out of seering intellect & fearless folk.
That seems illogical.
Maybe I panic because in the absence of people like Hitch, I'll have to think & be fearless for myself.

Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011: Click here for a reading list

Me No Speaky Rubbish Translations

So I've been on this Amrita Pritam kick for the last few days (NO? Really?!) and have been wandering through Delhi's bookshelves di galiyan in search of her like a lost-and-found lover (What? Stalker, you say? Huh? I. Can't. Hear. You.)
I will tell you this: the quest for Amrita is not for the faint-hearted, especially if you're faint-hearted and linguistically challenged like me. Because I don't just want Amrita. I want her in a language I understand. I know this is a travesty - after all, we're talking about poetry, where meanings can shift with every little sentence restructure and certain words, well they just might not exist in the language of your choosing.
I'm willing to make a compromise, though. I'll forgo English. Just give me Hindi, ok? I'll figure out the rest. After all, how far can the leap from Punjabi to Hindi/Urdu be?

Ouch

Oh God. Huge leap. Huge, huge leap. The kind that makes you stretch so far out you split your inner seams. The kind that hurts so bad, there'd better be a baby at the end of it all. In short, I never thought words would pain me so.

To my uneducated ears, Punjabi has always seemed like a dance between Hindi & Urdu. As Urdu leans in, Hindi sashays out and when Hindi takes the lead, Urdu gracefully accompanies. The two are never out of step & together create something fresh and evocative.
The translation I eventually found was more like those drunken Unclejis who storm dance floors at Delhi weddings. The Hindi is hard and pushy (and strangely reminds me of L.K.Advani's screechy speeches at public rallies). The Urdu pops in and out most jarringly. The musicality & emotional impact of the original is totally lost in the mayhem. 

Now I'm left here like a spurned lover (stalker/ weirdo) with this useless translation filled with cold words. I'm pissed off. I might even commit arson. Create mayhem of my own. Conflagrations of fancy words, jostling with ridiculous college-level humour and needless parentheses (just say 'brackets' will you?). Hell, I'll also throw in some random images because who doesn't like a story with pictures?

This is my ode to Amrita's translator. Take that, bitch.

"I want world peace" ~ L.K. Advani

Low Angle

It's been a difficult couple of days and I knew I had a solid cry coming. 
This evening I went to a screening of a documentary on Henri Cartier-Bresson. Once the lights dimmed and opening credits rolled across the black screen, I found the darkness & comfort I was looking for. I had me a quick & efficient weep.

And as the folks around me nibbled on their popcorn, tears fogged my spectacles and I thought - "It's been a difficult couple of days and I knew I had a solid cry coming...."

"There is nothing in this world that does not have a decisive moment" - Cardinal De Retz

Crossing Over

Hands held tight, they crossed the crowded street together. Him leading, as she adjusted her most stylish 'going incognito' gear - a pair of over-sized sunglasses, a massive grey poncho & skin-tight black leggings. Her hair was gathered rather messily at the top of her head. A couple of pimples that had appeared overnight had been camouflaged by an expert hand. She bent forward, leaning into him as they speedwalked through the crowd. Her ploy was working, the more she dug into his back, poky sunglasses and all, the less passers-by seemed to care.

And she said: "....I feel like a fool walking around with all this makeup on my face."

He replied: "Take it off then."

"I can't. If do and someone takes a picture, I won't hear the end of it in tomorrow's papers."

"Like what?"

"Like how old I look, how much work I need to get done. How the work I have had done is so terrible."


"So what if they do?"


"You think this is vanity? It's not. I'd just as soon be out for dinner with all my wrinkles & warts on full display."


"Then...?"


"It's the machine. The machine can't function if I stop caring. One bad piece in the press, one paranoid producer. One paranoid producer, one film lost. One film lost, another piece of bad press. It snowballs and before you know it - you're done. Finished."

"Aren't you overstating things a bit?"

"You think? That's because you're not running the machine. You're not responsible if it comes to a creaking halt."

"Aren't you attending those prayer sessions? Don't they tell you, there is no machine?"

"Yeah, everything's a stream....it's all changing, I'm changing, you're changing. Nothing's permanent."

"See? You're not supposed to sweat the small stuff."

"Like the death of my career? Like letting down everyone who works for me? The loss of respect...bankruptcy?"   


"Well...hmmm...maybe 'nothing's permanent' doesn't necessarily mean 'nothing matters'...."


"I don't understand what you're saying. Are we there yet? How much further? People are begining to stare at me - I must look like such a freak with all this stuff caked on my face."

"Almost there. You're right, I don't get it either - how do you give a fuck about this world without giving a fuck? Don't worry, you look beautiful." 

 *********

http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/wallpaper/river-crossing_pod_image.html

Note To Self

It's alright to accept that you're not all that. That the things you write about are neither very exciting nor relevant. That you're not as skilled with language as you'd like. That you make horrendous mistakes in grammar & spelling. That your blog is just a blog and not a stepping stone to anything more meaningful like a book or a script. It's alright if you can do this calmly, without self-pity, without loud proclamations of "I will never write again!" It's fantastic if you decide, in the face of all this, that you must never stop doing what you enjoy so much. That nothing can stop you from writing that book or script or from correcting your spellings.

When a story needs to be told, it will compel you to do the needful. Till then, go finish reading all those books you promised you'd finish. There's more than enough grammar to be learnt from those things.

Writer's Block

The ideas wouldn't come so she nibbled her pencil. She gnawed it down to the quick and started on the yellow notepad. Her teeth tore into the pages until she reached the desk. But she didn't stop. She chomped down hard, crunching its wooden legs down to their ends. Then she ate her way through the floor, which became the downstairs' tenant's ceiling. She ate the downstairs' tenant's ceiling & floor and kept on going.

She gobbled the foundation of the building and began burrowing into the ground. Swallowing fistfuls of clay, mud, roots & rodents, she made her gastric way through the earth. She grew larger & larger until her girth drilled a massive tunnel straight through to China. That's where she came up for air.

"I love you, oxygen!" she exclaimed before turning around.
She rolled all the way back, devouring earthworms & fossils along the way. When she finally reached home, she sat back down in her chair, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and brand new pencil.
The ideas still wouldn't come but at least she was full.

What I Do

Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, everything slows down as I release the word 'Screenwriter' from my mouth. I stretch time, savouring their widening of eyes and the 'wooooooowwwwww' that seems to go on for days.
I do this because the next question will promptly crash my little hovercraft of delusions into the ground.
"What films do you write for?"
"Non fiction."
"Like serials?"
"No...like documentary films."
"Like Big Boss?"

Here, I pause. Because they're right. These films I help make (or 'supposedly' help make, as my mother believes) don't reach too many people. The last time I did something that was broadcast, was in 2007. I know of 2 people who saw it. One of them was my mother.

Still, it's a great job. Someone with a lot of money contacts me and tells me they don't have any money. Then they tell me the subject they wish to make a film on e.g: sewage treatment. I am asked to take a trip for research purposes. Thanks to such trips, I have experienced strange & fascinating things like the inside of a mountain, secret rituals of the Khalsa, Malyalee robots bumping into tables, a duet between Manoj & Shweta Tiwari and a Citibank conference.

Researching for documentary films is a respected profession amongst the 6 people who know what it entails. You're the equivalent of a Harvard PhD in this tiny group. What you say & believe about a particular subject is the gospel truth. You are, in fact Jesus of the film crew. (Or so you tell yourself as they delay your payment by another month.) No need for them to know that your analysis of the Guru Granth Sahib was the result of standing in the karha prasad line at the Golden Temple. After all, the final film will only give you 30 seconds of voice-over to expound on Sikh philosophy. Of which 'The Guru Granth Sahib is the Sikh holy scripture" takes up a whole 5 seconds.

After research is done, it's time for writing. This is a task of many contradictions. A good documentary film writer isn't one who actually writes well. It is one who knows when not to write. In a medium where the hierarchy of communication tools places visuals, sounds & interviews above everything else, the writer must constantly 'unwrite'. Shakespeare would've made an awful documentary film writer.

Then there's the unspoken rule. What you write is never right. Takes a while to get used to the gentle sounds of dismay when one presents first drafts. Contempt, horror & anger will be hurled at you by people who can't spell their own names correctly (or even spell 'correctly' krektly).
"Madam, you have not even written anything about our great Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute For the Hormonally Challenged!"
Who will explain to them that the visual of a building saying 'Baba Kamdev's Exceptional Institute for The Hormonally Challenged is quite Exceptional' does more than what a 2 page voice-over ever will.

And so you unwrite the script and present the film to your client.
They are effusive in their praise - "This cinematographer has done wonderful work!" "Who is your editor? Simply fabulous graphics!" Your chest bursts with pride or something like it and you eagerly await your pay cheque. You discover they've cut your pay because you only wrote 3.5 sentences in the hour long film.
You make like Guru Dutt in Kagaz Ke Phool and renounce the world.

Then, one day you're switching channels and catch a line that sounds vaguely familiar. You realise this is your line. You cringe at how horrendous it sounds but don't change the channel. You wait till the end of the show for that golden moment - the moment that, if your work was being shown in a cinema hall, would be the one when everyone walks out.
In a sea of names rolling up the screen, you see yours for a nanosecond.  It will be gone before you blink, not to return in a hurry, not to see a DVD release or fancy premiere. And so you stretch time again.

The Best Opening Lines Of All Time...

Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and the scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants, and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing.

John Steinbeck (1902-1968)

Plan B

Midway through lunch, Doc got the call she'd been waiting for. The club sandwich, fondled lovingly only moments ago, found itself brutally flung to the side as she stood up with an electric sense of purpose, sending her chair flying across the floor.

She barked confident orders into the phone, "I'm coming. Prep the subject.". But her heart was a toy monkey, all wound up, clapping manically.

No stop lights heeded, no schoolchildren or old men with walking sticks allowed right of way. She bulldozed her way through traffic and within fifteen minutes made a screeching halt at the doorstep of the Institute. Keys still in ignition, she leapt out and rushed past the doors, which magically parted for her. Slipping across the polished floor, finding balance along the walls, she almost didn't make the corner that led her into her lab.

Her lab. Usually a chamber of isolation, tucked away in the back of the Insitute's building. Most passersby assumed it was a supply room full of chlorinated cleaning fluids & wilting brooms. Not today. The lab was humming with nervous energy. Doc's entire team was there, waiting with their eyes on the door for their leader's entry.

She burst in with a flourish and slightly out of breath. Assistant Moxy sprung to her side, shoving a tablet containing the latest data into her hands, while guiding her limbs into surgical scrubs. Doc hurriedly scanned Specimen A's stunning results, her smile widening, then disappearing behind a mask Moxy tied around her mouth & nose.

As she approached the operation theatre's entrance, the corner of her eye caught Dr. Spoote sidling up to her - "So, Doc, this is it, huh? This is your moment."

"Let's hope so, Spoote. I'm very confident."

"Of course you know this could go either way...."

"Let me interrupt you there Spoote. The subject is prepped - we don't want to fry the poor thing's nerve-endings now, do we? Or let me rephrase that - we don't want to waste the Institute's millions now, do we?"

Dr. Spoote stepped aside. Doc strode in, her eyes zeroing in on Specimen A, as she drew every fibre of her being into a nucleus of focussed concentration.

"Scalpel," she said.

The team gathered around her now, waiting for that single cut to begin the rest of their lives. Glory, sweet glory awaited each one of them.

Doc stood there, scalpel perched above Specimen A.
"Hmmm."

The team inhaled in unison.

"Oh dear," she said, "What exactly are we doing here?"

*******