Archive | June, 2013

Why do I write?

20 Jun

I write to escape.

I write to come home.

I write to see, be seen and yet remain invisible.

I write to hear and be heard.

I write to understand.

I write to forget.

I write to remember and be remembered.

I write to find peace and seek chaos.

I write to create a different world, in my head. A world different from the reality I see.

It allows me to be anyone I want to be.

It lets me live my dream.

It gives me wings and lets me fly.

It lets me paint the town red.

It allows me to, laugh, cry, smile with ease.

I write to not feel lonely.

I write to understand the beauty of the language.

I write to let other people out there who think like me know that they are not alone.

I write with the faith that someone, somewhere will read between the lines and understand what I have not told.

My eyes see a story in everything. Something to be told, something to remember. My mind does not let up till I have penned down the continuous stream of words running inside. It is a like an elusive song, the musical notes are like a  memory. You wait and allow it come to you. Running behind it just chases it away.

It creeps up on you and drenches you with the notes. The words then come from somewhere, you know not from where and you have to pen them down, for the words begin to consume you from within, to a point where you just can’t function as per societal norms till you pen it down.
words

You don’t know anything else when you write. The world shrinks to the language, the words swimming within waiting to be used, your thoughts and your pen & paper or simply a computer. You then begin to type away. The pace of writing varies. Sometimes it is slow, allowing you to savor each word as you type it, quenching an unknown thirst. Other times it is impatient, it urges you to write faster and faster for fear of missing out on few things. You experience relief only when you have finished writing. You  feel lighter, happier and somehow smile, forgetting everything else. The difference in how you feel before and after you write, is indescribable. It feels like a load has been lifted off your shoulders.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”- Ernest Hemingway.

Hemingway pretty much surmised what people who write do. Every word that is penned comes from a place that holds truth. Just like how every disguise will have a facet of the real you, everything you write is part of you. It comes from the deepest recesses within.

It brings you closer to yourself. You laugh, smile, your eyes tear up, your throat clogs up and you feel the same things that the writer felt as they were writing each word. To simply put it, people mostly relate to writing by how these words make them feel. Blank pages don’t scare me. It is the inability to fill them that is scary. Everything starts from nothing.

Everybody sees things differently. A single post by somebody can be interpreted in several different ways. You get to see the different facets of different people, learn to look at different viewpoints. A small portion of you is on that paper. And you gain a bigger portion, because of that small part.

Writing, contrary to what people think is fun, for me. It is therapeutic and cathartic. If you have ever read books voraciously, if your parents had to get you to study only by threatening to hide your story books, if you frequent your neighborhood library to an extent where the people in the library know you by your name and ask you why you didn’t turn up last week, then you would know what writing truly is and what it can accomplish.

Words can move people, stir a nation. If somebody, somewhere is inspired by something that I write, that day, I’ll truly be, beyond words. So, why do I write?

Because I don’t know what I would do without it and because it is as necessary as my next breath. I’m grateful for it because it is one of the best gifts I have gotten. And because words are eternal. Written or spoken, they will stay with you, always. Everybody has a writer within them, some know it, some don’t. But mostly I write because I simply can’t not.

Some write as a hobby. Others write for a career. A few others write.. just because..

Why do/don’t you write?

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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For you, ma’am

4 Jun

College life has such a spectrum of things. You meet so many people, learn stuff other than just what is there in your books, discover yourself, make friends for life, meet teachers who inspire you to make more out of yourself and have super fun too 😀 There are several kinds of teachers,

1. They put you to sleep as soon as they enter the class.

2. They teach beautifully.

3. They have fun with you, act like a friend and somehow manage to get the syllabus done.

4. You have no idea hat they are doing, taking that subject.

And then there is Anusha ma’am- my Sanskrit teacher at college- a class all by herself 😀

She is funny, unbiased, encouraging, passionate, blunt and so much more. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do justice to you, ma’am, through this post, but I’m going to try.

Language hour is never studying for us Sanskrit students, ever. It’s a laugh riot. It’s usually a free hour with ma’am in class. It’s not like she doesn’t teach. She does. She just makes it so much fun that it doesn’t feel like you’re doing anything strenuous. We can talk to her about almost anything ranging from astrology to phones to palmistry to college on Saturday or completely random, unrelated stuff.

She is more of a friend than a teacher. She is a perpetually happy person with her own brand of sunshine. Her passion for the subject shines through and is evident in the way she teaches. You can literally hear her heart break when someone makes a very basic grammatical error. The expression on her face when someone pronounces something wrong or makes a spelling mistake is priceless.

The first time I raised my hand giving her a high5, she gave me a blank look, wondering what she was supposed to do with it. Then I taught her the concept of high5’s and then we high5’ed nearly every class, for random stuff. Usually, when you’re on permission, you’ve to produce a permission letter signed by the concerned teacher, stating the reason why you couldn’t attend class. But with Anusha ma’am, all you’ve to do is send her a text her saying, “Ma’am, I’m doing dept work, please mark permission for me. Thank you, ma’am.” And she’ll reply saying, “ok.” This gets on the nerves of students learning other languages as they have to write a permission letter, get it signed, show it the concerned language teacher and wait till she marks them in the register. “Ma’am is technologically advanced, you see?” is what I tell my friends. 😀

Language hour for me is like bed time. Not the sleeping part, but the part before that- stories… She makes you feel like a kid all over again. Sometimes, all of us sit around her like clamoring children demanding stories and she would smile and oblige. She will tell you stories about great warriors, various legends, reveal stuff that we had no idea about and engage in heated arguments with us on several topics.

She will tell you stories about her college life, life, family and other random stuff. She’ll tell it with child like innocence, animation and laughter; you can’t help but laugh till you cry. She won’t collect money from us for the department association because she feels it’s the teacher’s responsibility and not the students’. She’ll let you to go the canteen if you had missed lunch because of work, but only after she gives you a sound lecture about skipping meals. You can keep bugging her, but I’ve never known her to lose her temper. She is so happy if Saturday is a holiday and jumps with us in joy because she gets to spend time with her son.

An ardent devotee of Sai baba, she would keep us entertained with incidents that happened to her during her visit to see Him. Once, all of us were SO bugged with college, we didn’t want class that day, but ma’am wanted to take class because she was bored. She wanted to take Virata Parva of The Mahabharata, so my friend, Socks took the xerox and held it high. Ma’am spluttered and was highly indignant as she was unable to reach for the notes. One of the best moments in Sanskrit class, ever. l nearly always have a sugar rush whenever I’m in language class, so I keep talking. Then that echo, “Naan romba strictu, strictu strictu.” (I’m very strict strict strict.) The way she says it is SO cute. I don’t think cute will ever apply to any teacher as aptly as it applies to her.

She can’t draw to save her life. No, really, she can’t. So, there was this sloka ( a category of verse line) on the sun rising or something and she drew 2 triangles and this lopsided thing which was supposed to be the sun. We laughed for the entire hour and didn’t stop.

All the preparations for our department association Madhuliha 2010, the charts, decorations and all. Then how we managed to get full day permission and left. Madhuliha 2011 came and as we were the seniors, we helped in conducting the association. We prepared questions for the quiz, organized events and had incredible fun.

We give her a book to write stuff about us in it and she says she is done in 5 mins. When we go see, we find out she has written it in Sanskrit and she hasn’t realized. So, yes, I’ve 2 pages in my diary with Sanskrit in it.

We can tell how irritating this one dept is. How annoying that teacher or class is and you know instinctively that it won’t go beyond her.

The numerous discussions about the health of her son. How you will randomly get a call from ma’am and there won’t be anybody at the other end of the line and randomly you’ll hear screeching and yelling. This happened around 6 times to many of us. When we told ma’am about it, she seemed surprised and then we figured out it was her son randomly pressing buttons on her phone!

I’m so glad I took Sanskrit in college, ma’am. The world needs more teachers like you.  Thank you for everything.

We love you.

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

Movies these days

1 Jun

Movies in the black and white days were classics. What are classics? The term is probably used for something when the person or thing in question’ has timeless appeal & remains a favourite long after it has been introduced. How to steal a million, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, My Fair Lady, Titanic, Mary Poppins, Sound of Music, Lawrence of Arabia, African Safari, Hatari, Legend of Lobo, Bismarck, Guns of Navarone etc can be seen again and again and you don’t get tired of it. THEY are classics. They had style, elegance and class.

Now, about the same time, you had really good Indian movies too with good strong story-lines, songs that had lyrics which made sense and were beautiful, a cast that knew what acting was and a director that brought all this together. Cinema back then was brilliant and could inspire and motivate people.

 Time went on and then you land smack dab in the theater watching Kandasamy. You start wondering.. What was the director thinking when he made such a movie? Probably somewhere along the lines of..

Expressing your pain is therapeutic. I therefore say with pride I made a movie where each scene forces the viewer to gasp. The more the pain, the more tortured the cries. When they do leave the theatre, their ability to think, process and assimilate information is effectively nullified.

 

 It’s difficult to decide which part is more excruciating:

1.Vadivelu’s supposed comedy

2. Vikram’s cock dance with that horrible rap

3. The songs

4. Shriya’s role in the movie. Her costumes, dialogue delivery.

5. Did I mention it is a sorry excuse for a movie?

6. It’s freaking 220 mins long.

7. The story-line is at the bottom of its bottomless class.

I’ve taken to threatening people, who irritate me, saying, “I’ll tie you to a chair and make you watch Kandasamy for 3 days straight without break.”

Okay, let’s take a hypothetical case. An action movie, say speed? Or let us go for something along the lines of Ocean’s. Now, Bollywood directors get the sudden urge to remake these movies in Hindi. God save us. (Incidentally, I love George Clooney, Matt Damon and a couple of others in the Oceans cast)

Okay, let’s say they get SRK to play Clooney, Uday Chopra to Play Brad, Kareena Kapoor to play Roberts. Spend crores and some more crores. An item number is introduced. Uday Chopra destroys Brad. They make stupid innuendos. Concentrate on style factor. Get the women to wear strips of cloths that would a better job being used as toilet paper. Get lots of sick, candy floss romance for all characters. Kill a few people. Change the story-line. Subtlety is beyond them. Tell that they are conveying a message of.. let’s pick the thing farther-est from the story-line.. Say, fidelity? We die after watching & then they tell, it’s desi style. Argh. CAN you imagine? I’d rather not, thankyou.

There are also lots of songs with lyrics that would make any decent English-speaking person faint. Vocabulary is usually limited to- cool, hot, sexy, baby, run, get you, fun. Grammar is non-existent. There are also scenes where hero is elevated to super hero status. The scenes where the protagonist confesses undying love. Incidentally, why do heroines wear saree in sad scenes and HOW do they manage to stay so pristine and pure while sleeping and when they get up? The last time I checked normal people wake up pretty groggy eyed.

 They will meet people on the road and they will all dance together, knowing all the steps. Director will claim that all of them have given such sterling performances and that the story-line is absolutely riveting. Cast- superb selection! (Psst- only thing wrong was the direction)

 Most directors these days don’t look at the hit to flop ratio of the heroes.The actors say that they are very choosy and want to go for films with good story-lines, but where are the good story-lines in the movies that come out? Do they lose their brilliance during the conversion into the actual movie? If yes, then why don’t the directors realize that? How can they possibly expect us to sit through movies like Blue, Action replay etc? It is mindless entertainment, slapstick comedy. It has everything, BUT depth, decent story-lines and people who know to act and not use their bodies to carry off the role. And then they become sophisticated overnight and tell there are movies coming out now for every type of audience. Yeah, ALL of us want movies with no continuity from scene to scene, females gyrating on poles sporting the minimalist look & songs that make no sense. And they spend crores on movies like Blue, Kandasamy and the like.

Trailers are supposed to make you long for the main picture, not make you long for a remote to break open the television.

You should try this. A bunch of friends get together, get a super flop movie, mute it and make up your own dialogues. You’ll know how absurd the movie is when half your comedy was actually there in the movie. You don’t know whether to be like, “Was the director for real?” or “ROFLMAO”

We get that you guys are rolling in dough. Filthy rich doesn’t even begin to cover your assets and moolah. What I don’t get is are you’re really that jobless to make a movie where watching it fully for the first time becomes an ordeal? What is the point, pray, tell me. movie in question- Kandasamy. Why aren’t there more directors like Mani Ratnam coming up? Are we gonna be stuck with this kind of cinema? Directors- Please take crash course in directing and stop the continuous stream of garbage.

 There are good movies coming up. Just that they are as frequent as an honest politician.

These days it’s pretty common to see people texting the person sitting next to them in the theater. The only thing good is probably the number of aspirins that have been bought to subdue the headache. The pharma industry could use a boost.

You’ve lots of money to spend for things like this, but nothing comes out of your pockets for worthy causes like the environment. Is it really worth it all? YOU decide.

***

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vintage Ink and My Rickety Typewriter with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

Void

1 Jun

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That void, it never goes away.
The ghost of their presence, always around.
When you are happy or sad and turn to find them it’s only then you realize they are gone.
You go around like you are okay, but you wonder what would they say or do if they could see you now.

Would they smile and run their hand over your head?
Would they laugh and tell that they are right here?
Or would they allow you to hug them and cry.

You can’t even cry now, can you? Because it’s been so long, people have expected you to have moved on.
But you don’t know how.
You don’t know if you should cry because somewhere inside, you are glad they are free from pain and are away from this darkness.

If only you would come back, but for a moment ..
If only you would come back, I would tell how much I love you and always will.
If only you would come back, I would show you how grateful I am for having been in your life.
If only you would come back, I would tell the world how much you mean to me.
If only you would come back, I would hug you and never let go.
If only you would come back, I would fight the world for you, for without you, where is my world?

If only..

For all the times you have made me smile.
For all the times you have wiped my tears.
For all the times you have pulled the blanket over me.
For all the times I have eaten off your plate.
For all the times I have hugged you.
For all the times you have told me it will be alright.
For all the fights we have had.
For all the times you took care of me.
For all the times you told me you will always be there.

Sometimes people tell me this kind of intensity will only burn me down.
Be more mellow, they tell me.
But they didn’t know you, did they?
Why aren’t you crying they asked me the very day you left.
What could I tell?

That I could still sense you?
That I was always ensconced in your warmth, safely?
That I couldn’t believe you were gone?
I will make you proud, I promise.

P.S. This is because of you, Kruthika Maheswar.

Reading that poem of yours made me cry my eyes out.

P.P.S- I don’t know why I posted this. Be gentle, please.

© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vintage Ink and My Rickety Typewriter with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

The Music in Everything

1 Jun

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The wind in your hair playing hide and seek with your eyes.
The soft music you hear when it brushes past your jhumkas.
The rat-tat-tat on the door when somebody knocks.
The clinking of a bride’s bangles.
A new-born’s first cry.
A dancer moving to the music of her salangai.
The sound of a priest reciting prayers with faith, hope, devotion and love.
The sound of a train moving along the tracks.
The clanging of bells in the temple.
The sound teeth chattering on a cold winter night.

The sound of crackers on Diwali.
The sound of an aeroplane gearing up for take off.
The sound of the stove being switched on.
The sound of thunder accompanied by lightning.
The sound of a bus conductor asking for tickets.
The quiet, calm assurance in a man as he recites his vows.
The sound of loose change in your pocket.
A teacher teaching.
The sound of cooking.
The tress swaying in the rain to a tune known only to them.

The roar of the crowd when India wins a match.
The full-throated laughter coming from your belly.
A parent’s smile.
The sound of potatoes being fried.
A paper rocket whooshing past your eyes.
A violinist lovingly playing his violin and drawing us in.
The whirring of the old, dial-up modem.
A mother crooning a lullaby to her child.
The sound of somebody sneezing.
The sound of vegetables being cut.

The pages of a book rustling.
The waves lapping your feet in a rhythm as old as the sea.
The click of a camera as it captures a memory.
The happy, excited yells of people on a rollercoaster.
The honking of horns on a busy road.
The sound of walking over dried leaves.
The slurping of tea.
The soft swish of a saree being draped.
The reassuring sound of a rattle.
The soft ping you hear when you have a new chat message.

A brother kissing his sister on the forehead.
The sound of a rickety old typewriter.
The sound grains of sand make as they pass through the hourglass.
The annoying sound of an alarm clock.
The soft beats you hear when a singer keeps pace with the beat.
The tumultuous claps in a theatre.
The ringing of the telephone.
The sound of a fish market.
The scratching of pen over paper when you write.
The sigh that escapes when a loved one comes into sight.

The call of the milkman.
The sound of air being pumped into tires.
A volleyball whizzing past your ears.
The clinking of glasses in celebration.
The soft measured footsteps as you sneak to have ice cream in the dead of the night.
The pressure cooker whistling.
The call of, “Food is ready.”
The whirring of the accelerator as you speed up on a highway.
The rhythm of soldiers marching.

The carefree laughter of children playing.
The roar of water rushing down a water fall.
The shuffling of cards.
The chirping of crickets at night.
The racing of your heart after a successful interview.
The tapping of keys on a keyboard.
The clickety-clack of your footwear as you walk.
The pitter-patter of raindrops on different surfaces.
The song that the wind chimes sing.

Happiness bubbling through you making you smile, with your eyes dancing to the music within you, lighting up your face.

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© My Rickety Typewriter, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vintage Ink and My Rickety Typewriter with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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