be warned
I take each stone
thrown at me
and turn it
into a chip
for my mosiac paintings
no stone is wasted on me
no stone is wasted by me
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
half a life
He places his note on the dark, breathing mahogany. It bathes in the sunlight fluttering and swirling around in the wind.
He wishes it reaches her before long and draws a curtain to cut the drift. The note is the harbinger of his misfortune for he is sick. In his long, calligraphic hand he has written what he must feel in the quietness amongst himself.
“If I don’t see you
a part of me walks
away
Seeing you
is an unbearable
glee
what real misery
love is
and this may not even be love
but some lesser known disease
colonizing me
I will find its name
if you are still there
or abandon this mission
and walk away
leaving half of my self
writhing in pain
if we meet someday
we will join our unfinished hearts
to see if it makes for a decent shape
every crevice can find its answer
every edge its jaded whole”
He galloped away the pain, riding inside a cloud of dust.
He wishes it reaches her before long and draws a curtain to cut the drift. The note is the harbinger of his misfortune for he is sick. In his long, calligraphic hand he has written what he must feel in the quietness amongst himself.
“If I don’t see you
a part of me walks
away
Seeing you
is an unbearable
glee
what real misery
love is
and this may not even be love
but some lesser known disease
colonizing me
I will find its name
if you are still there
or abandon this mission
and walk away
leaving half of my self
writhing in pain
if we meet someday
we will join our unfinished hearts
to see if it makes for a decent shape
every crevice can find its answer
every edge its jaded whole”
He galloped away the pain, riding inside a cloud of dust.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Baawarya
Okay, now I am human and thought I had a limit of endurance to the onslaught of movie trailers but I was wrong. I am beyond endurance or I am endurance myself in tinges of blue where a girl with long long legs, (hmm, good camera angle) runs and runs across a blue mossy wall, along a blue pond reflecting a blue moon in a purple-blue sky. She runs and runs away from the boy’s song, I guess.
And the boy! is in a white towel against a blue window in ‘provocative’ transparency. This is the first time I have seen a man in a towel who isn’t following protocol i.e.:
1. bathing when his girlfriend enters and his towel falls and she screams and he screams and hides behind inadequate objects.
2. lying on a day bed, phone in one hand, gun in the other, massaged by four bikini girls.
Here, actually there is a male towel dance! Some points for innovation. (gay icon award, notwithstanding)
And after running, the girl starts twirling till she is shy of the bankruptcy of those twirls. The boy spots the crescent and convincingly complains “Dekho chaand aaya, chaand nazar aaya”. Then, he does his robot dance.
I hear there are 14 songs and ask someone Bansali’s age, wondering if senility happens at 40?
As an afterthought, I pray the movie is different from the trailer and that it has a storyline and makes for good entertainment like ‘Hum dil de chuke…’ (for most part of it).
In the end, I would like to have said, “only the trailer was bad”.
Waiting.
And the boy! is in a white towel against a blue window in ‘provocative’ transparency. This is the first time I have seen a man in a towel who isn’t following protocol i.e.:
1. bathing when his girlfriend enters and his towel falls and she screams and he screams and hides behind inadequate objects.
2. lying on a day bed, phone in one hand, gun in the other, massaged by four bikini girls.
Here, actually there is a male towel dance! Some points for innovation. (gay icon award, notwithstanding)
And after running, the girl starts twirling till she is shy of the bankruptcy of those twirls. The boy spots the crescent and convincingly complains “Dekho chaand aaya, chaand nazar aaya”. Then, he does his robot dance.
I hear there are 14 songs and ask someone Bansali’s age, wondering if senility happens at 40?
As an afterthought, I pray the movie is different from the trailer and that it has a storyline and makes for good entertainment like ‘Hum dil de chuke…’ (for most part of it).
In the end, I would like to have said, “only the trailer was bad”.
Waiting.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Some of us, and the verandah called art films
We gathered under the canopy of mildewed skies, our hearts seeking horizons beyond our own, on which we had but a dim gaze.
We knew there was not much to achieve and we recognized the footfalls of emptiness that came knocking at our door each night and if not, then every alternate day, begging for alms of self-loathe.
We settled in those desperate whonked-out velvet seats, brushed bald in places with overuse and meandered along the path of altered recognition, slipping across its edges, tight-roping a thought, carrying crucifixes, ribbons of grudge and awe.
Some just held on to their breaths, some dozed off to the rhythm of a large fan zzooo, zzooo zzzzo, till the picture-curtain as large as a verandah swallowed our silent dismals giving us new meaning. Dressy or dressed down, they were our own thoughts that came back to us. Why do you think we had different interpretations?
Some spoke into mobiles and got shush-shushed across dark diagonals.
United in grief, united in laughter, we walked away alone, individual, as the credits rolled on. Our cuddled, close-knit consortium was not to be spoken of, only felt.
Some of us:
Sam, you were a liar who searched for employees/writers to employ in your dreamt up, unavailable, non-existing projects. You searched for young women. The younger the better and promised them the things you knew they desired through your well-endowed script. Only that existed not the dreams in it.
Jeremy, you were a film student wannabe. I say a film student wannabe because you still had to learn to learn. You force-fitted earlier lessons on new experiences and refused to give new experiences a chance. But you were cool in your humor because you used Sam as a butt of all your jokes. Sam hated you too but he was evaluative. He would have liked to see if your skills had any use to him.
Baba, you were old and bent and dressed up in all pink khadi, white shalwaar like a branded scriptwriter. I am never acquainted with your work, Baba. I have not reached that place yet where I can sit at the edges of your pen and look into the reflection of your scribbling. But you were present at every place I rolled my gaze. You must be someone great if not to others then at least to yourself.
Actor, you always asked me about the ‘what-next’s’. Was that coincidence? I would like to think so, because you showed no flicker of recognition between one and the next. Clean shaven and chikna, dressed in denim you looked handsome. Didn’t you feel stuffy in that huge jacket worn even at noon or were those your armors that kept at bay anonymity? I looked at you when you looked to see if others were looking at you. But I looked away when you looked my way.
Ponytail, you want to talk but you restrain in the alignment of your purpose. You could have at least asked me my name. Or what I do or if I would have a chai? I wouldn’t refuse, I swear. We have known each other for long - losing and emerging from the crowd of thought, feeling, and dream. Just yesterday, when we crossed over the promenade escaping our eyes, I had this feeling you would miss me if I die and I would, if you. Some knowing happens without words.
-c- Rochelle Potkar
More of us, soon.
(at least that’s the empty promise one should give)
We knew there was not much to achieve and we recognized the footfalls of emptiness that came knocking at our door each night and if not, then every alternate day, begging for alms of self-loathe.
We settled in those desperate whonked-out velvet seats, brushed bald in places with overuse and meandered along the path of altered recognition, slipping across its edges, tight-roping a thought, carrying crucifixes, ribbons of grudge and awe.
Some just held on to their breaths, some dozed off to the rhythm of a large fan zzooo, zzooo zzzzo, till the picture-curtain as large as a verandah swallowed our silent dismals giving us new meaning. Dressy or dressed down, they were our own thoughts that came back to us. Why do you think we had different interpretations?
Some spoke into mobiles and got shush-shushed across dark diagonals.
United in grief, united in laughter, we walked away alone, individual, as the credits rolled on. Our cuddled, close-knit consortium was not to be spoken of, only felt.
Some of us:
Sam, you were a liar who searched for employees/writers to employ in your dreamt up, unavailable, non-existing projects. You searched for young women. The younger the better and promised them the things you knew they desired through your well-endowed script. Only that existed not the dreams in it.
Jeremy, you were a film student wannabe. I say a film student wannabe because you still had to learn to learn. You force-fitted earlier lessons on new experiences and refused to give new experiences a chance. But you were cool in your humor because you used Sam as a butt of all your jokes. Sam hated you too but he was evaluative. He would have liked to see if your skills had any use to him.
Baba, you were old and bent and dressed up in all pink khadi, white shalwaar like a branded scriptwriter. I am never acquainted with your work, Baba. I have not reached that place yet where I can sit at the edges of your pen and look into the reflection of your scribbling. But you were present at every place I rolled my gaze. You must be someone great if not to others then at least to yourself.
Actor, you always asked me about the ‘what-next’s’. Was that coincidence? I would like to think so, because you showed no flicker of recognition between one and the next. Clean shaven and chikna, dressed in denim you looked handsome. Didn’t you feel stuffy in that huge jacket worn even at noon or were those your armors that kept at bay anonymity? I looked at you when you looked to see if others were looking at you. But I looked away when you looked my way.
Ponytail, you want to talk but you restrain in the alignment of your purpose. You could have at least asked me my name. Or what I do or if I would have a chai? I wouldn’t refuse, I swear. We have known each other for long - losing and emerging from the crowd of thought, feeling, and dream. Just yesterday, when we crossed over the promenade escaping our eyes, I had this feeling you would miss me if I die and I would, if you. Some knowing happens without words.
-c- Rochelle Potkar
More of us, soon.
(at least that’s the empty promise one should give)
Monday, October 22, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
The color maroon
Warm as wax, he said, laying her. He drank into the nectar from her lips, one hand playing with the curve of her neck, the other traveling over the geographies of her body. While her lips turned raw and delicate, he moved to her throat, tasting the curves of its bone.
His thick hands moved over her breast, teeth crushing its nipples. He wanted her to return and that’s why he wasn’t too rough.
Relishing the inside of her thigh and suffering his tongue into its moistness.
She glanced at the clock. Another fifteen minutes and it would all end. She wondered if he would let her go. Their clothes lay in a heap on the floor, he still in between her thighs. He entered her now allowing the eager welcome to grip him, licking at the bruises he had blazed on smooth skin.
Time over, she tried to push him away but he rode deeper and deeper into her darkness lighting candles that the winds couldn’t blow away. They were one now, his hands around her waist, fingers entwined in her waist band. She lets out a cry and he unsuccessfully bridges a thumb over sore lips trying to stifle those cries.
Later, he watches her dress. The shimmer of fabric dim the sight of clevage.
***
She stood naked in front of a large mirror examining the maroon bruises, coating them with blobs of lacto calamine - the New lacto calamine they advertised on TV.
She has another appointment at eight. She drapes a soft silk sari over a deep burgundy blouse and wears her favorite tear drop earrings.
A name flashes on her mobile. He has reached and is waiting for her.
girl interrupted
woman fulfilled
(c) Rochelle Potkar
* a behind-the-scenes interpretation of Laga chunri mein daag.
His thick hands moved over her breast, teeth crushing its nipples. He wanted her to return and that’s why he wasn’t too rough.
Relishing the inside of her thigh and suffering his tongue into its moistness.
She glanced at the clock. Another fifteen minutes and it would all end. She wondered if he would let her go. Their clothes lay in a heap on the floor, he still in between her thighs. He entered her now allowing the eager welcome to grip him, licking at the bruises he had blazed on smooth skin.
Time over, she tried to push him away but he rode deeper and deeper into her darkness lighting candles that the winds couldn’t blow away. They were one now, his hands around her waist, fingers entwined in her waist band. She lets out a cry and he unsuccessfully bridges a thumb over sore lips trying to stifle those cries.
Later, he watches her dress. The shimmer of fabric dim the sight of clevage.
***
She stood naked in front of a large mirror examining the maroon bruises, coating them with blobs of lacto calamine - the New lacto calamine they advertised on TV.
She has another appointment at eight. She drapes a soft silk sari over a deep burgundy blouse and wears her favorite tear drop earrings.
A name flashes on her mobile. He has reached and is waiting for her.
girl interrupted
woman fulfilled
(c) Rochelle Potkar
* a behind-the-scenes interpretation of Laga chunri mein daag.
...
I imagine you to be who I want you to be.
In that case you are mine.
In that case you are a myth.
In that case you may be a muse.
In that case you are mine.
In that case you are a myth.
In that case you may be a muse.
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