Friday, December 30, 2011

The need to...

Run, run, run
Through storms, snow and mist
Tread new paths branching out from the old
Never to let one's mind acquire mold

Climb, climb, climb
Your grandpa's trees, fences or walls
Dig your fingers and toes deep
Till you find the urge to take the big leap

Feel, feel, feel
The wet red earth nesting worms
The glow of a sunset
The wind against one's chest

Find, find, find
The reason to persevere
The courage to stand tall
Even if the easiest action could simply be to fall



























Sunday, December 25, 2011

For D K Bose, verbal rants and future writing

"You 85?"
"Ummm... yes "
"You sure ...you 85?"
"I promise I really am 85"
"Alrite. I get you beer"

I am at Versaille, a much hyped Cuban restaurant on Venice and Motor in West L.A. The waiter is just either way too nice or used to shenanigans of this kind. A little before I pulled into the parking lot, I realized I had left my driver's license in the copy machine at work. Of course, I had the photocopy in my wallet (of course!) And the waiter is making sure I am indeed "'85" born. Maybe I need a face lift or slice off half my nose (as my mother often mentioned I should consider before the cosmetic surgeon in our family).

I have other pressing issues that I should be worried about apart from not looking my age. I may be pulled over by a cop tonight. Since when did photocopies (how I miss saying Xerox) suffice for an actual license in this part of the world.  More importantly, my dinner with A which  is a once in a lifetime opportunity is in jeopardy. He is still stuck in LA's notorious traffic on the 405. 

My beer arrives. It's a 'Pacifico' ( a watered down version of the humble Indian Kingfisher beer ) and then I begin flipping through the meat extravaganza on the menu. I make mental notes of my last experience eating roast chicken with a fork and knife and promptly decide to order pork instead. Fiinally he walks in. I've only spoken to A once before after his writing debut made a killing at the box office and led to a theater being burnt in Lucknow. No doubt his film was a 'riot'. He is half his size than what the Tehelka article showed him to be. I don't bat an eyelid and go straight ahead, complain how scrawny he looks and then we hug. Like old friends catching up around the corner. He pulls off a leather jacket to reveal a gothic T-shirt beneath. Not the classic khadi kurta clad writer for a change.

Within the first hour of our first meeting in person, I've confessed that my family is bent upon getting me hitched in the next year and that all I really want to commit to is a job, a game plan for starting my writing and staying in the US for at least 2 more years. I pause for a moment in my mind and realize I barely know this guy and yet he's made what seemed like a networking dinner more like gup-shup between two old buddies. He tells me exactly what he thinks of marriage as an institution and does not shy from mincing his sarcasm as he proceeds humorously to comment on my future plans. I think I already trust this guy and would work for him in a heart beat even if it meant nothing but free food on his set.


We proceed to talk of his time here at UCLA, my time back in Mumbai at UTV, why some daft people consider themselves vanguard of "Indian civilization" and insulted A at a writer's panel and what it meant to have your first film as a writer be one of India's blockbuster hits . It's all music to my ears. And dinner doesn't serve us enough time. So we head off to Starbucks for a quick cuppa. I insist on buying A coffee and it evolves into an argument. He mentions photocopied driver's license to shut me up. I sure do since there are two cops waiting in line ahead of us. Good verbal ranting makes fro a great writer. Check. But I am not one to back down easily. I order the coffee, settle into a couch cross-legged as A now defeated, resorts to industry talk and why heading back to India makes sense for someone like me. It's not the first time I've been given this advice. I make a mental note of it.

Forty minutes later, I drive A back to Versaille where he gets into his Mini Cooper (!) .  But he isn't driving away yet. "I"ll wait till a girl without a license gets home", says A. I laugh, wave to him from my car and drive away. It's been a great evening and having promised A that I"ll cook him "shorsho maacher jhol" with the signature "lonka and lebu" , I look forward to our next chat. Here's to writers ...everywhere. You keep us sane. Thank you.