death rattle

“IN THE TIME OF UNIVERSAL DECEIT TELLING THE TRUTH IS A REVOLUTIONARY THING”

Being born in the heart of India, one without any doubt , accustom and adapt himself to the indigenous cultures of our diverse yet unified nation. Bhopal, the city in which, I came to this world, became a viable resource of all art forms that debauched me into the world of writing. It began with, writing short stories and school plays and soon turned into an obsession, that would take over my mind, for the rest of my life. Along with cinema, politics also took over my fascination, and soon found a place in my writings. Soon the focus shifted on the effect of decisions made in the closed offices of North and South block, on the common Indians.

“Call me don” (2001), the first play that I wrote and directed. was a tale of a Principal Secretary of State and his dysfunctional family, who becomes the center of media’s attention, after an alleged gas leak. My infatuation with theatre ended when after graduating high school in 2004, I shifted to Mumbai, for further education. The shift was a time to grow up, it was a time to quit writing. To get a job in the advertising world and forget all about the passion, the dream and the ideals.

But as it seems, you can not escape, who you are. So after surviving a short stint at an advertising firm, I had to retreat to my pencil and paper. It came on the dreadful night of July 2006. Seven bombs, not only blew up the local trains in Mumbai , it devastated the faith of the city. The city, in which I lived for last two years, found a home, was now in shambles. I could perceive a fear of unknown in it’s eyes but it was zilch in comparison of fear it’s inhabitants felt among each other; they were frightened of themselves.

After traveling in the local, the day after, I had to do something. I started writing, and questions kept arising; why some of us think so less of human lives? What would prompt an human being to kill others of his kind? Why have we become so mechanical , why have we become so hollow in recognizing religious and ethnic, other than ours? The questions were disturbing, yet were standing there, staring at me. This encounter resulted in ‘ An Oblate’s redemption’, a play about a suicide bomber, who is denied entry in heaven, even after he had finished his task of bombing a federal building. Now, no where to go, he follows an ambitious broadcast reporter, who is determined to find everything about the suicide bomber at all cost. In the midst of chaos , we are introduced the worst of mankind and we realize that even among all our prejudices, we all are fallible humans.

When I shifted my attention to films from theatre, my focus remained the same. The scripts that I had written till now are all based on socially relevant subjects. Whether ‘Walk alone/walking alone’ ( based on the wretched civic conditions in Mumbai) or ‘To be a Hero’ (based on horrors of outsourcing and development), all are focused on new generation Indians, who feel left out in the new India, still tied in the shambles of traditionalism. But irony of it is, that neither the producers are interested in such stuff, nor they want to entertain a 21 year old writer, who has no so called ‘film gene’ or ‘connection‘. There is no denying the fact that today the opportunities for the new cinema are immense, but one also has to accept the fact that these opportunities are saturated by the people, who have the ‘film connection’

After 21 years on this earth, I had found the path, that I wish to travel, probably for the rest of my life. It is the path less taken, a path much feared, a solitary one. But it is the path I know, would be my contribution for the development of the People.

‘

Embodiment of a screenwriter

I ADVISE, YOU NOT TO READ IT, AS IT IS LONG, BORING AND MUNDANE. IT IS RESULT OF MY CONSCIENCE HESITATIONS AND MY CHOICE OF PROFESSION. AND, YEAH, WHY i WRITE. I KNOW ITS TOO MUCH, SORRY..........

As I had already mentioned, it took me 4 weeks to write. Its time to explain why. After, or somewhere before, I reached Goa. I began to think why i write. There is always a reason, why things happen and I thought workshop gave me the impetus or the boiling point for that. So, I decided to write and rambled on for four pages. It would be cruel, for me, to ask you to read it. Actually it would be obnoxious, as you have no fucking idea of my existence.

But, somehow, I thought, it would be cheating, as you, all out there, have given me, great opportunities and I donn know how to thank you for that, except to write.

I think, when you realize what you wann do with your life, the real struggle begins. Albeit, the realization of your ability and calibre might not appear instantaneously, but it takes a lot of time. Like all other, I had a clandestine desire to make movies. At 14, I started scribbling, something. Thought, in two years Spielberg would direct it. As we, know and good for him, it never happened. I returned to my shady desk,and began preparing for my pre medicals, became another sheep in line to emulate my pedigree.

I didn't know, what screenwriting was, till I read an article , in Sunday TOI. I think, it was 2004. It was about One writer's struggle to start screenwriting course in India. I had never heard of him, but was fan of two movies he wrote. especially his last one. I think, you know him. (sorry, for being dramatic or stupid. whatever)

It was inspiring; hell it was so instigating, that I decided to confront my folks. After hesitating for 2 long months, and pain sticking 13 pre medicals, I revealed to them, my desire to be any one else but a doctor. I did nt had a courage to tell them, that I wann be a film maker. So told them about my serire to study, a less embarrassing subject; media.

Off course, they were upset, for the loss of their heir, to run their hospital. But, to my surprise they became the biggest support system. Trusting me in my moronic endeavors and letting me do, what I wanted.

Yada yada yada...I came to Mumbai, a city which I despised, where I never wished to live. But now as it seemed, I had to live as the other cities of this great nation had no option for the course I wanted to study. As it happened, the city welcomed me with open heart. Zilching(yeah, its not a word & m no writer) my animosities, it revealed, it's true soul.

My first month here, and chaos overtook the city. I saw the havoc of july 26. It's after math shrugged me. The Mumbai I saw, was not of despair but of hope. Helping hands everywhere. Everywhere you look. I saw many things, in coming months.

It was not me anymore, it was the city. A city which talked, without even speaking a word. I donn know why, but I kept writing, even though no one wanted to read anymore.

A year went by. Around six, in the evening, a phone call awake me. Again, It was my folks, they were anxious, were desperately asking me, where I was. Home, I replied. With relief they informed me that there were bomb blasts in the city. I switched on the tele, and again, there was chaos. They begged me, to return home.

But I was home.

The city was volatile, they had fears. It had burnt before. It had taken lives, out of the slightest sign of anxiety. My decision to stay, finally prevailed. They retreated. Their only source of relief, was that,that they had got me an apartment, in one of the city's most safe neighborhoods; a Hindu neighborhood. Guarded by the phantoms, who themselves were murderers. They would never kill their own. But, when people are frightened, they donn recognize their own. They only seek to trench their anxiety.

Against their wishes I got down, roamed around the city. The orange office, of the patrons of my neighborhood was flooded. I thought I would see hate, i would see anger. But they were empty. No one spoke. In unison they watched as people, just people, helped each other. A city that was smoking a day earlier, tonight was calm. I thought of writing something, but kept staring at the cursor. Next day, I had college.

The local was surprisingly empty. People, the same People, who till yesterday were filled with anguish, avoided looking at each other. They were not frightened, but were just blank, pitifully void of any emotions. After reaching college, I found out, that administration had shut down all institutions for today, to avoid any mishap. I didnt understand, how they can avoid something that had, already taken place.

Everything remain shut, except hospitals. It seemed people came directly to it, from their shut down places. Some were in search for their dear ones, others were there to hold them. Nothing happened, as days went by. Everything returned to routine. The locals were crowded, colleges reopened. The air began to stunk, again. But, the city was not calm, anymore. The People had begun to stare at each other. This time, it was not blank anymore. Their eyes had emotions; it was of hate. They were frightened, they were scared, they were suspicious. And it came out, as it had always, came before. In the shape of anger.

They thrashed some guys, who they thought were terrorist, refused to allow People to board, who they thought were terrorist. They stared in disgust, at people, they thought terrorist. The same People, who they saved, that night. The same People, who saved them. The same People, who were beside them all this time. The same people, were now terrorist.

They started, writing blogs despising them, sent text messages attacking them, made movies agonising them. Now, everyone was a terrorist. A city, that in the beginning, I hated and that if i may say, had slowly seduced me, was now glaring at me. And for the first time, It was blank. I sat down, in anger to write something. After a time, slammed my laptop, I couldnt type a single word. I was incompetent.

Lost in oblivion, i saw an ad, about a competition about my feeling about the city and me and off course, the bomb blast. It was an appropriate opportunity, now I had a platform, for the city, I loved. I thought to write a long essay, but again words refused to come. Then, a day, for a class project, eight of us were discussing topics for a play. Many options were mooted. One was about the motive of suicide bomber. It was the most ridiculous thing I had heard. He is called suicide bomber, because he was successful in his motive. Otherwise, he would have been called failed bomber or some other thing. To avoid the mundane acting responsibility, I presented myself as a self proclaimed writer. It was decided that, like other self proclaimed snobs of the group, I would come up with something "interesting", that means something that would bring us more marks than others.

While returning home, via local, and thinking of something "interesting". I looked at the people, who I had avoided successfully, in past two months. They were all discussing, something common. They were discussing about the boggie, we were traveling in. Their conversation reached my ear; it was indeed, about the boggie. It is the same piece of steel, which was bombed on July 11. You can smell the fresh paint, you can see the scar, you can see the writing on the wall, which proudly reminded the commuters of that evening. It all rushed back to me; the city, the people, the bomb. The bomber.

I started thinking. I began seeing him. He was not a monster. He loved the city as much as I did. He had a family, a mother, closed friends, a girl who he loves. he was just a guy like me, hell, he was me.

I started writing. For the first time, in months, words were pouring out. I saw who he was, I followed him like a shadow. Pages after pages, his life became 12 point courier fonts.

My restriction was 10 pages, I had 23 pages of crap with me. Pure crap. But I was happy, it felt like, that I had just vomited, everything that was blocking me. The writing was terrible, the grammar was heinous, but the People understood. I saw a guilt in their eyes, a sense of frustration grew over them, they started discussing, started questioning, who are we? Is this, what we want from us? Have we come down, at a level to hate each other, just to feel a sense of satisfaction?

Now the city didnt stare at me, anymore. There was a sense of respect. A believe, a hope, that wheels will turn, People will change.

Nothing changed.

Few days later, people began to hate each other. Again, started forwarding those messages. Dismayed, I started writing. No restrictions, wrote what I wanted to write, soon realized it wasn't easy. Learnt, you have to fall innumerable times, before you could walk. Kept writing and deleting, did that Continuously for a year, yet I had no story. But I had characters that, I had never seen or met before. I had outsourcing, farmer suicide, excessive capitalization, neo liberalism, naxalism, reservation, ethanol subsidy, globalization, bureaucracy, transition in newspaper business, lost love, lost family, police brutality, North block, IB, RAW, college drop outs, royals who wann return to power, freedom of expression.

I had Chomsky, Orwell, Manto.

What I didn't had, was a story.

I wrote, pages and pages, for 4 months, amounted to 173. Yet, no story. Ultimately, gave up. Took a vacation. Went Tirupati with family, Himalayas with pals. Now, I didn't wann write anymore. I had not worked in months, I needed a job to feel high. But not an advertising or reporting, a writing job. So met a man, in may end. He asked me to write a short story, about a family, coming back to Mumbai, and then leaving just after few days, because it is a 'city of hell'. At the first sound, it was an absurd idea. Hearing the second time, made it more absurd. It was against everything, I believed in. I didnt hate the city, I donn care about culture, I didn believe in it. I almost dropped the idea, but after he called me again, I started it again. I thought I could write, I saw two character, I saw the city. I saw an unforgettable story. A story that I dumped, somewhere, while writing the script. I had only one aim, to finish it at any cost, so that I have at least one feature script. The result, a messy, highly disgusting and embarrassing script. A script without a story. (The funny thing about being a writer, or a phony one at least, is that u start to think in terms of credits. you need things to fill your resume, so that you can more work, to fill your cv, some more.)

Thankfully, from even most gruesome acts, something, great comes out. And, my new script is no exception. Like all writers, I am looking this script from the horizon and its giving me chills. All I have to do now, is to write. Just write........
(And yeah, thanks for reading) I know, it was a torture!