In Limbo

I am two weeks away from graduating. Two thesis films yet to be completed, numerous assignments with overlapping deadlines, 3 finals within two days of each other and my dream internship at Focus narrowly missed because of my being engrossed with a multitude of things that weren't in a priority list.

A year back on this day, I was sauntering across the garden back at home in India  absolutely ignorant of the whirlwind of an experience this year would turn out to be. And here I am, almost at the threshold of a possible life in another country, a career and a future and yet that visible catalyst to triggering that off seeming so elusive.

Reality checks of having to return to Mumbai and starting all over again and the anxiety of a loan ridden future has me turn to 'Parks and Recreation' for comfort. Leslie Knope give me hope :) It's 6 AM and I am up, writing, watching pretending that worrying is unnecessary...

 R reminded me that the worse that could happen would be to return to a country that offers me countless options when it comes to work...... Perhaps he is right. Perhaps not. If only I could go home for a brief while, be with family and friends and meet those I need to before I start my life here.

For now it's one day and one step at a time ..... I lack the luxury of wanting, missing or needing...

Of Fathers and Sons

Yesterday was the last class of my Light & Lens course. I am so very grateful that we had a fantastic professor like Coffeay. In my previous job, I observed my cameramen work effortlessly to get the light right and being a very very very amateur photographer...well someone who loves visuals, colour, light in short, this course was my hands on practical training in setting up lights, understanding the various aspects of key, fill, green screens, shadows, pools ...the works basically.

Which brings me to why I am writing this post. Coffeay showed us a documentary called "Tell Them Who You Are". It was about the eccentric or some would say radical American cinematographer Haskell Wexell and his difficult relationship with his son who happened to be the documentary's director. The film was shot mostly and narrated from the perspective of his son and captured Haskell in his 80s, fit as a stick and still dominating as his reputation in Hollywood testifies. For those of you who are wondering why Haskell is famous, he was judged as one of history's ten most influential cinematographers and has iconic films like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, America America, Bound for Glory, Medium Cool (which he directed), The Thomas Crown Affair, American Graffitti amongst many others. Not just this,  Haskell was an avid documentary filmmaker and attached himself to causes against the establishment's much criticized activities in developing countries. 

The film starts off as a 'talking heads' piece with the likes of Lucas, Jane Fonda amongst many other illustrious Hollywood personalities recalling their memory of Haskell. But upon the latter's suggestion, it evolves into a moving piece (albeit torturous to watch in places because of the arguments and taunts that Haskell subjects his son Mark to repeatedly) of a father's relationship or the lack of it with his son. As I watched Haskell bicker with his son on camera, arguing about creative differences, I was reminded of my father's relationship with his father. Dadu, my grandpa was what would underestimate by referring to him as "persuasive". He was loved and admired for his knowledge and generosity. But to those who had seen his temper and stubbornness, one would perhaps not hesitate from labeling him as a difficult father and a husband.

Needless to say, this attitude must have left a deep impression upon my father. My grandma tells me they never my dadu and baba never got along and come to think of it, I am able to look beyond a lot of my father's unflattering characteristics with this knowledge. I understand my dad's frequent short temper and his impatience with us. How can you grow up without not being affected in some way or the other by the eccentricities of your father. Yet, growing up I saw my father do everything possible that a loving son would do for his father. To the extent that every summer, my father would insist that we all spend the month long vacation with my grandparents. "No sight-seeing, no new states and no summer activities", as my mom remarks to this date.

For many years now, I've also seen my sibling's perspective of my father as very different from mine. And I didn't relate to it until much later when I understood how his attitude to her growing up had led to certain characteristic traits in her personality she wasn't proud of. Of course, we've had open discussions/arguments over how better of a father figure he's been to me than to her. But in the end,  she understands that she has always idolized him subconsciously and emulated his values and that as children (not daughters vs sons but children) we couldn't have been more blessed to have him as our father. 

I think the men from my grandfather's generation and to some extent my father's, where hardened by the severe disciplining of their parents. You weren't required to be a nurturing parent but more so a taskmaster to a child.

As I see it, men have softened, become more domesticated, nurturing and equal partners in the process of parenting in the last two decades. and as ironic as this sounds with the rising number of divorces I see, families today have more nurturing and compassionate male figures than they did before.

Haskell at one point in the documentary, called his son "a mess". As much as I wanted to dislike him, I also wanted to admire him. I think he came a long way by agreeing to open his life's secrets and allowing his son to go public with the honest truth of the scars, the resentments and finally the forgiveness that his son experienced in their relationship.

Tom Hayden (Jane Fonda's ex husband) summed it up pretty well when he referred to what he and many sons experience from their difficult relationships with their father . I can't recall word by word but it was on the lines of "one has to cut off the toxic transmission that one was at the receiving end of to become a more responsible adult to your children". Couldn't have been better said.

So this is an ode to all the fathers who weren't quite what they were required to be for their sons - ideal role models; to the fathers who found courage to admit their mistakes; to the father who has learnt from his past and changed himself.

To my grandfather in the end who despite all his flaws gave me my father; someone who puts his childrens' need before his, protects them from the worst risking his own life and who has despite all that he may have once not been, has always been a true friend.

Thank you baba

Of orange love scenes and perfect Saturdays

I am jumping up high, higher and higher. No...literally, Florence and the Machine has that effect on me.

That and the fact that I must surely have the best combination of very gifted actors, a brilliant Director of Photography and a very versatile Producer. The first love scene for my thesis film went off well today. I had butterflies looking at M and J kiss n our tangerine lit attic room.....

Later we unwinded with a bottle of wine and idle banter with Adrienne's duck Dexter and four dogs

Days like this remind me why I should never give up on my long term dream of directing...

And oh yes, the London-US call was the best 3 hour of non-stop laughter I've had in a long time. 

Thanks A :)

For once.....

I don't like updates. As in I don't like giving updates in the form of a blog post (shouldn't I be maintaing a super secretive journal in that case ?) but I am making an exception tonight.

Because.....I had a marvelous evening. Six weeks away from graduating and wrapping up this dream of a bubble/ blissful academic experience that Newhouse School at Syracuse has been, I am grappling with the potential to make the best of the time left.

How am I doing that? To begin with, I took up two thesis films. That's right TWO.

I am Producing a short fantasy fiction for children and Directing a coming of age story about a young woman's effort to break through the stereotypes associated with exploring one's sexuality. Yes. They are completely different at the opposite ends of the spectrum. And that's the beauty of being involved with this craft.

The real challenge is directing two very crucial love scenes in the second one. C my Producer/Writer called  our lead actors over for drinks today and I swear I am not advocating the use of alcohol, but it did make a difference to creating a very nice comfort level between our actors. 


It's a bit bizarre at times at how involved you have to become as a director helping your actors shape a mood or experience that will dictate a scene and then detach yourself from it almost immediately and let that scene become theirs. 

The wine must have helped because I communicated what I wanted from my actors perfectly. And to my relief, M and J locked themselves away in C's room and rehearsed their scene. It's ironic, but it was my male lead who was more nervous about the intimacy than the female actor. Hallejuah!

Later, C and I decided to give ourselves a break and headed to the only Irish pub on campus. C's cell was flooded with texts from two different guys both wanting to spend the evening with her.


!!!

I am barely a feminist but for once, cheers to the women I work with. It was truly OUR evening. We danced away with each other barely concerned about the lack of male company in our river dance stunt

Salut!

Spring Break in the City: Unscripted

Saturday

Each trip of mine to New York has been very distinct from the previous. In its mood, of the people I meet and of the many things that my brain is constantly grappling with as I scan this city and its people.

J got back from his South East Asian trip so jet lag and grumpiness are threatening the prospect of what I had in mind for this trip. But friends stick up for each other so I am being patient and trying to not feel bummed about the fact that he leaves for SXSW on Monday.

For the first time in the city, Saturday night was a promise of getting wasted and living it up. Neither of that happened. J and Puiya had been drinking all evening so by the time they got home, whiskey was running in their veins.  More whiskey shots followed between the men while I quitely sipped my Kahlua and listened to 'Something Good Can Start' by Two Door Cinema Club (my latest song running in a loop). Puiya pulled me up and we were dancing freestyle jazz followed by THE dip. I have always wanted to be dipped that low with my head touching the floor backwards like they show in the movies, so this was so much fun...after such a long time.

Next, we caught a train to Brooklyn and reached a pub that was clearly a place for 35 and older. The music wasn't snazzy for a Saturday night but I got to meet a cinematographer, more lawyers (are there more legal personnel in this world than we need because  I just meet too many of them!) and a med school student. These days with my low threshold for alcohol, I stick to one gin and tonic but J's whiskey fest left him sick. Over lemon and water and my efforts to make him feel better, I spoke a bit too much perhaps about our common concerns of our friendship and my indecisiveness of moving to NYC or LA . It was nice to be there just talking and listening to someone who's been such a good friend and strong source of comfort in the last couple of months. And in such moments, my heart just spills over. Maybe R was right but her counsel has killed motivation to just be in the moment. I am mad for the first time with a friend looking out for for me, because I think the universe works in such unfair ways. When you want to be carefree and spirited emotions run strong. And tables turn when you least expect them.

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Tuesday

The floor assistant selling me boots today flirted, asked my name repeatedly and claimed he waved tax for me.....freaked me out a bit. Good looking but very starry eyed so I played it cool and walked out fast. Walked a lot betwen 34th and 44th and my feet are killing me in these fancy boots. Met E at Madison and we talked for over two hours about Development and his experience in the industry so far. I love his energy and drive because it reminds me of myself being in hyper-productive mode which E is known for. I then took the plunge and wandered into the Museum of Sex all by myself. The graphic novels were a real catch but as J said, the other stuff was a bit wasted on me. But I still had a good laugh. Net time, I"ll be patient enough to explore the 2nd and 3rd floors as well. Heading back to J's apartment for a quite dinner and efforts to push through my Film Noir paper

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Wednesday

This city's penchant for throwing bizarre things my way is absolutely stupendous.

I am sitting at a  Starbuck's on 46th and 9th to get work done because sitting in J's flat all alone depresses me, besides Micky and Lucy the cats just stare at me with the ''puss in boots eyes" wanting to be cuddled up and there's only a certain limit of cat hair that I am willing to entertain. I think having fat furry cats is an added advantage for struggling young professionals in New York. I suggested that we collect Mickey's and Lucy's fur and make it into cat yarn and then outsource it to knitters. Heard about Mohair? How about feline substitute? Hey, you can sell anything in a big city , especially to New Yorkers:)

So the Indian guy sitting next to me has a very heavy accent and has been talking serious business with people across the country. His fingers move smoothly over his ipad and that's about as expressive he is going to get . I am busy checking out a very very cute 28 something 'hipsterlicious' (as Jack puts it) who's just walked into the cafe and is now by my side when I notice a really grumpy looking stocky woman with a huge Russian nose, yank the chair opposite my nifty Indian business man and plant her big frame squarely across him. She is checking him out and he betrays no sign of surprise or irritation!  Turns out she is not well in the 'sane' category . It's been half an hour and he sits working steadily while she sips her ice tea and mumbles grumbles all around the air....I am impressed. 

Meanwhile, my said cute horn rimmed spectacle sporting 'hipsterlicious' friend is talking to another of his kind. Why didn't I realize this earlier. I am in Theatre District. Of course all good looking and interesting men are anything but straight

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Thursday

Today is St Pattie's and it's a really big deal in the city. Mostly an excuse to be drunk ALL day and wear green paraphernalia in the most imaginative manner. I really wanted to make the most of our last day in the city (me, Jess and Jack) so I found a play on Broadway that I really wanted to see with Jack. It's called The Book of Mormons and is written by the creators of South Park. Unfortunately the theatre company wasn't selling discounted tickets and after a half hour wait at the TKTS booth on Times Square I simply abandoned the idea and met up with Jess. We made our way to Central Park arguing about directions and cracking up all the way. The park was off limits but the sunny warm weather was still a bonus so we just walked around, ate hot dogs and ice cream and indulged in people watching. What a city of beautiful people I tell you.

I had an interview lined up on 23rd later that evening with the Producer whose credits are super impressive : Monsoon Wedding, You Don't Know Jack, Iron Jawed Angels, Hysterical Blindness, Mississippi Masala and The Darjeeling Limited. Jess gave me company all the way through Chelsea and we had a fair share of more hen watching but again, Chelsea people so .... straight men are a rarity. Chelsea is so much dirtier than I imagined it to be rather more earthy. Lots of quirky stores, brick red apartments and weird exotic poodle stores (I see lots of men with one of those bizarre midget dogs walking the streets of NYC). One was selling Japanese pups for $1400!

Finally, I get to the Producer's office and wait anxiously. It was a bit surreal to say the least sitting beneath these huge posters, shelves of manuscripts and books in this fancy studio office, knowing that you are just about to meet the brain who put together some of your favourite movies. The meeting went well, I think most of it did. And while nothing is on the cards for now, I am so grateful that people actually make the time for young people starting out. If only I could just get a job and move to the city!

Later that night, the girls and I landed in Grenwich in the village at the Sullivan's Hall. I dug this place out from Time Out, New York because of its promise of a cheap entry, good house and world music and amazing energy on the dance floor. Sadly, that didn't work out too well. By the time we entered the last of the bands was performing and then the techno trance converted it into a club mood so we got out. Jess had befriended a guy who's studying in SVA and he gave us directions to two dance clubs. Armed with maps we set out just the two of us. We barely crossed two blocks when a tall Polish guy   grabbed Jess' map and promised us to find what we were looking for. Another Polish guy joined him and the next thing they were talking in their own lingo convincing us we should be making docus on their lives. Jess came up with "my brother is waiting for us" excuse and we managed to shake the weirdos off. Brrrrrrr. We laughed hard though and another 5 blocks down realized that she had left her credit card behind. When we got back to Sullian's, the SVA kid was still hanging around so we convinced him to join us and again began our hunt for the two promised clubs.

By 1 pm we realized that for some reason the village was dead and that we weren't going to be breaking a leg. The SVA kid treated us to a lot of NYC celeb gossip (including Leonardo Di Caprio's latest disguise at Soho) and finally took us to this little family run Chinese pub called Willle's close to the NYU dorms. It was perfect. Dog tired and barely awake, we downed pork dumplings and chatted up more. 

So New York wasn't exactly what I had wanted from it this time. But, I walked much more, figured out the subway better this time and made new friends. The cabbie who dropped us off the last night was a political prisoner in Chad and once taught Math at a University before he had to leave his country and family and come away to New York.

The city surprises you, overwhelms you and then makes you grateful for all that you have.

~~~~4 feet under: Day 4~~~~

"F^&*!!!!!"

 My pool-mates laughed hard for the next 2 minutes or so but my coach didn't seem amused. I guess Americans are even more conservative than I assumed them to be. Next time, the temperature of the water is not to my expectation, I am going to bite my lip or perhaps mouth another word that I often substitute for the harsher version: "frack" (which I picked up from my Canadian friend). Perhaps even "fish".

So nothing very exciting to report about this time but for the two athletic looking Indian guys who walked in midway through my class and barely even returned my gaze. I guess it's not our culture to be amiable to random strangers and we smile rarely, if you haven't noticed already. You walk down campus and get a smile from almost everyone walking by but Indians. The corners of their lip extend just about .08 mm or so for a sec and then they are back to the straight faced matter of fact look. It's like they cheat you into thinking "yes I'm smiling at you" but they don't land up doing so and as a result you are left grinning wide faced like an ass because your reflex has already jumped into action with that .08 muscle movement from the Indian opposite you.

Anyway, enough love for my brethren. So back to swimming class. Yesterday, I was taught a free hand stroke and forced to be pinned against a wall while I got it right. My hand co-ordination isn't right apparently but as soon I had the pool to myself, I practiced the stroke for close to two hours. 

I find it hard to get out of the water once I get in. That block of time from 7-9 is mine and only mine. All the stress and mind wandering of my professional and personal life completely disappear when I am in the water. 

Every muscle in my legs and shoulders hurts but I can't believe the brilliant work-out this proving is to be. 

Winter, I am sticking my tongue out to you..

Bleah!

 

Say a Little Prayer

I can't remember the last time I prayed. And when I mean a prayer I am not talking of the exaggerated brass bells swinging in a temple with marigolds whipping in a frenzy as a mad storm engulfs the porch of a temple while I prostrate myself on the ground in obesiance to a God/Goddess (if you've grown up on corny Indian cinema of the 80s you'd know what I am referring to)

To me a prayer is the most selfless, undivided and pure essence of your energy, your beliefs being channelized into a single thought, a single moment of a connection with a force beyond yourself. It is often in earnest desire of understanding why a situation presents itself to you or to make sense of something beyond your expectations - sad or happy. It is my little moment of meditating by myself regardless of people around me during day or the comforting darkness of my room at night.

Growing up, I watched my grandfather, a  hard-working and extremely strict man who served the British army to his best for 30 years and dedicated the rest of his life to his garden, his grand daughters, carpentry, writing and a hundred other interests that were beyond comprehension to an ordinary person. He read every single holy text that he could and had the cross, the symbol of Islam, a swastika amongst a multitude of brass, stone, iron , laminated old Ravi Verma paintings of various gods and goddesses crammed into a little 6 foot by 7 foot red cemented floor. This was our shrine or the 'thakur ghor'. Everyday, 'dadu' as we grandchildren fondly called him, spent 2 hours in that shrine reading verses from the Bhagvad Gita, recited atleast three sets of 'jaap' or chants to certain Gods and then cleaned and decorated all his little deities with fresh hand picked flowers from our very own garden. I sat spell bound, dwarfed by his physical and intellectual prowess happy to be infused with a concoction of camphor, frankinsence and basil, listening to his stentorian voice transformed suddenly in rhythmic comforting lilting patterns of Sanskrit words. Needless to say, the overall effect was hypnotizing. I learnt the 'Hanuman Chaalisa' in Awadhi and recited it everyday for 12 years because when I was young it just sounded cool to recite 40 lines of devotional lyrics to the monkey god Hanumaan, penned by none other than a famous Indian poet Tulsidaas. Cool also because every male member of my family recited it after a bath while standing out in the open  in the cupped hand posture thanking the force above. The sun and the sky seemed limitless when my uncle did this. And if it was my father's voice doing so while he got ready for his office, it was a comforting reminder of how gentle his his voice could sound singing hymns.

Amidst such fidelity to the Hindu texts and rituals, my family's stance to religion seemed spiritual. Never was I ever taught that my religion was a certain thing I had to affirm to or identify myself with. My grandparents and parents always emphasized on the philosophy that Hinduism essentially is. Not the set of codes and customs that fundamentalists/eccentrics preach it to be. Over meals, during our summer family get togethers over beer and long walks, they explained the logic or significance of a custom, a religious practice or a day meant. Never was I ever asked to shun other religions for simply their malpractices and never have I ever therefore as a result of endless debates and questioning identified myself as a staunch religious person.  My family's unique method of practising Hinduism was our own alternate religion. 

And yet I won't deny it, I seek out the customs and practices of the comfort that this so called 'religious behaviour' exists at home. Entering the cool recesses of my grandfather's little shrine is the first thing I do when I head home. It has become our family's meditation zone, something we seek comfort from the turbulence of life. Dadu is no longer alive, but his face smiling down from the shelf in the thakur ghor fills up my heart so much that I can barely contain the sadness I feel of his absence. At the end of it all, I feel happier knowing that I had the privilege and freedom as a child to participate with adn question the adults of my family over religion and its ritualistic paraphernalia. 

In retrospect, I may have no higher understanding of God and sometimes in this regard I respect how focussed atheists seem. But I am happy to feel humble, to feel a sense of dependence and gratitude for what comes my way and what doesn't. And it is largely owing to the philosophy that Hinduism expounds. Some may argue, belief makes you weak, that it makes you complacent, accepting all of life's tumultous chaos, resigning yourself to the adage that ''this is my destined share of things'' instead of fighting it out and fighting back. But the power of self- realization and the love for life I have experienced through organized scientific appreciation of religion, mine or others, is something I would never renounce.

Tonight, it's a prayer for J. For coming into my life by happenstance and being the friend that you are in trouble and happiness. Human beings mourn not so much for the loss or sickness of their loved ones but more out of a selfish dependance on this person and the fear of their loneliness at losing them or seeing them suffer. If anything were to ever hurt you or cause you pain, I would hurt as well. I hope there are better, healthier, happier days for you soon and that what you are going through is merely a phase. You have made the last 6 months of my life so much richer, more adventurous and made me wiser in your own little ways

Ameen.