Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Single

Those of us who don't win in love
Who don't get to clasp the beloved to heart
We are lucky
We are set free

To roam the mountains
To write till our pens go blind
To sing till our voice changes the seasons

As perennial losers at love's door
The moon takes us under its wings
We travel with the tides.

You will see the solitude of Marquez in our eyes
Sometimes, even the hurt of Frida
A few of us can drive Freud to the asylum
With their endless brush strokes for that one painting

We are lucky

We are never alone
In a well made home, with a marmalade family
And a marriage which smells like diapers

As for love, we are only there
Before it begins
We are blessed
To be never around for love's funeral

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Penance

Like every season this too shall pass
This delirium of impossibilities
Which hang over head and heart
Taking lightness away from footsteps

What is the point of haggling
With that haggard old woman called fate?
After every encounter with her
I walk back in shame
About the pebbles in my hand which I try to pass off as coins

How many mountains, roads, streets shall one walk through
To wash away the dust of still born hopes.
Not the enlightened one
Nor the monk with the bowl
May be should turn on the self help mode
And take the lemon for walks of penance to make lemonade

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Loneliness of a film

I am a jew in Germany, some where in the 1930s. There should be other things which concern me. Like the smell of genocide which wafts through the air. Will it arrive at my doorstep in a few years, months?

But, being fickle, I worry about other things. Like a film which remains largely unwatched. I remember the blood, sweat and tears of making it. Smell of fear, police men who delete footage, paranoia , hunger. Patches of poverty as you save up for another hard drive.

Now as the film sits alone in a corner, with hardly any audience, I wonder…which is the harder phase? There is no censor certificate, showing it has to be like walking on eggshells. Getting screening spaces is becoming harder and harder. Then, there is the panacea for all-an online release. But, being on the net means risking safety issues. So, the film sits alone, in the corner. These days it never gets up and comes to me with wistful eyes to know what I am doing about getting more screenings. I send emails and emails and emails.

Entering in festival circuit has meant over a 100 rejection letters. From dozens of different countries they write the same line, may be they get it from some template in the internet. “Unfortunately, we were unable to select your film to this year's edition of the festival. We had watched a large number of documentaries, which were carefully considered and the limited space in our program has forced us to make many difficult decisions.” I look at the vimeo link. The link was never played by some festivals. They screen the same films again and again, in a strange kind of film festival incest, blessed by PR managers.

 I walk alone through the tunnel, worrying about the film. I remember the man who travelled across with a rag tag projector and showed the films that theatres refused to show, creating a new audience. He died alone, penniless.  May be I should get a projector and go to places with a group. But, I don’t have the money for the projector, there is no group and most of all, I am not a man. With a bit of vomit in my throat I remember the progressive middle-aged film curator who had an almost 7 minute conversation with my chest.
..........

May be some films are not meant to be seen. May be I should worry more about the impending genocide.