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And at the end of it all, all I'm left with are memories, which I know you are quickly replacing. Shared once, but not much longer.

X-MEN III SUCKS!!!

Here’s why:

- Mystique gets turned into a mere mortal, completely stripped of all her powers – WHAT??? How could they???
- Jean of the red hair returns, but her alter-ego Phoenix kills Scott.
- Love saves the day, yet again – yawn.
- The beautiful Halle Berry as Storm gets sidelined. :(
- Prof. Xavier turns into cosmic dust - ???
- In the most cliched end twist ever – Magneto loses his powers, or does he?
- In an expression of good ol’ free will, Rogue chooses the antidote which will negate all her powers but allow her to fuck Bobby who she is scared she will lose if she doesn’t – sigh – yup, you’ve come a long way babe.

If you’re an X-men fan DO NOT WATCH part 3, it will kill the other two for you.

the lake

I never knew nature could be so melancholic.

The lake was calm but the silhouettes of the hills made me think of the past – words, smiles, caresses, unspoken promises. I tried to let go, I really did. I wrote a lot. I thought even more. Trying to put together pieces of the jigsaw, missing the picture completely I’m sure.

When there is nothing to do except sit by the water and look at reflections, it is difficult to dull the mind. I took refuge in walls, electricity and books, anything to stop thinking. I don’t think I really got anywhere.

Thought of all the metaphors possible with the word ‘boat’ and all the ones possible with ‘cards’. And all the ones that the fat ‘holy’ fish conjured up.

So different from the way nature moved me in Kumarakom.

Was welcomed back to civilization with open arms. T had written a mail saying she was unhappy, indicated what about but said she could not write the details in a mail. Implored me to come back soon. Never felt so close to someone. The mail did not respect capitals or spelling. It was from the heart, like something you would write to yourself.

Then K called me, asking if I was coming to Cal. And when I told him I couldn’t cos the plane ticket price had gone up since I mailed him, he wistfully asked me why I couldn’t come in the general bogey!

Friends. Pals. Buddies. Only known them a short while, but there’s something about living in the same campus, knowing you can walk into each other’s room any time of the day or night, seeing each other in states of disarray.

As FR and I agree, Bollywood style, yeh love-shove bakwaas hai!

void

She who jumps into the void owes no explanation to those who stand and watch.

- Godard

A Second Reality

A while ago, I felt that my distorted perception of reality would hamper me as a film-maker. Last night I found this:


Cinema is one art form where the author can see herself as the creator of an unconditional reality, quite literally of her own world. In cinema a person’s innate drive to self-assertion finds one of its fullest and most direct means of realization. A film is an emotional reality, and that is how the audience receives it – as a second reality.

- Sculpting in Time, Andrei Tarkovsky


16 mm shoot on Thursday. Had a problem getting actors for the four characters, finally did, and just half an hour ago it dawned on me that all four need to be played by the same person. :) The muse takes over…

Pray for me.

Meltdown

Need cuddle therapy.

Spaces

A lovely flat in Bangalore. Airy, full of light. A large balcony where the monkeys on the trees would copy mom doing surya namaskar at dawn. A red sofa-cum-bed that my sister and I shared. A big, round, glass dining table in the living room – raita in glass bowls. Mother’s grape juice, wine and jelly. Sammy, the cook, teasing me by giving me atta to lick instead of icing sugar. A plastic slide and doll’s house. Cane furniture. Falling asleep while the grown-ups seemed to talk all night long. Bob Dylan and dancing. Mother’s room – dark and cool with a green quilt, off bounds. Implicit, unquestionable, wide-eyed trust. Paints and plasticine. Temper tantrums, spankings, being locked in my room. Amelia Jane, the bald doll.

A house in the Coonoor hills. No electricity. Water from a well. Mother baking cakes over a wood fire. Cubby-holes in the walls to hold candles. Hot water bottles. Cuddling up under the quilt to hear bedtime stories. Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland. Gathering wild mushrooms and hiding them in a secret place. The smell of pine. Sister making a swing out of nylon string and a blanket for a seat. Picking up mulberries and custard apples to everyone’s delight.

Living in my mom’s friend’s home. An adorable boxer who piddles everywhere and slides across the room :) Being threatened by his unsound mom with a knife. A Muslim family with seven kids. Flying kites, playing hopscotch. Going to the village. Joyrides in best friend Ansari Banu’s brother’s auto. Being taught the alphabet at home.

Walking home in the heat from the bus-stop to the ashram. Going down to the empty basement kitchen and throwing away lunch. Reading and doing homework in the room. Sitting at the reception, importantly picking up the phone when it rang. Sex games with the girl whose family came for evening satsang. Being touched by a horny twenty-five year old. Fooling Ajayji, my supposed tutor, who never came back after the first class :) The bald, Italian swami who hid behind pillars and made alien ears at me :) All the swamis who put their meagre money together to buy me a cheap, much treasured necklace on my birthday :) Roller skates being stolen from the shoe cupboard. Throwing down clothes to the driveway of the adjacent building with an invitation for friendship.

A single, large rectangular room. Two beds at right angles. My sister slept on the couch. A white writing table with a bowl of fish and a messy shelf above it with books and cassettes. A small two-in-one, a birthday present, carried to the bathroom and placed on the flush tank while I bathed. Favourite music: Mr. Big’s Lean Into It, Extreme’s III Sides to Every Story. Hot, sweaty, happy days. The smell of summer in the air. The feel of fresh grass beneath my feet. Tae kwon do, school, crushes, secret diaries. Blood, life. A friend being barred her from meeting me after her little brother saw me kissing through the window.

My father’s home. Weekends. Dirty and messy. Fans and bathtub in the loo. Porn in the side table. Sunday morning TV. Videos. Putting toothpaste in chicken curry when there was no mint. Making beer out of sacks of potatoes. Discovering I have a half sister. And a half brother.

My aunt’s home. Doing homework on the dining table. Reading in the lobby, one eye on the clock, willing it to be a quarter to six fast so I can run home. Too shy to say I’m hungry, buying biscuits from the corner shop. Helping her count out bundles of money from uncle’s petrol pump. Playing pittoo with the neighbourhood kids.

A small flat. Small bedroom with a single window and a huge walk-in cupboard. Feeling each other up in the still, dark afternoons. Sounds of children playing in the park outside the window. Sounds of happiness and sunshine. Boredom. I should have been out there playing tennis instead.

A strange, old house. Full of mice and earthworms in the monsoon. Heavy old furniture, cobwebs. An upstairs room full of old books in cardboard boxes. A courtyard over-run with weeds and wild trees. A strange house for a newly-wed young couple. Even though I painted the doors yellow.

A hotel room. In bed with a manic-depressive. Dispassionate sex. Feeling like a spittoon.

A large flat with white tiled floor and new furniture. A huge bedroom. Living alone like an old woman with my cat. The bedroom. Cool, air-conditioned. He smelt so right, felt so right. Staying awake all night to watch him sleep. Never in my wildest imagination would I have thought he would have the heart to make me feel so bereft.

His flat. A narrow bed. Looking at his moist eye in extreme close-up. Trying to enter his soul. Wondering what makes him so full of love one moment and so disinterested the next.

A hostel room cleaned about once a month. Crap stuck on the door. Baby pictures on the cupboard. References to my film on the wall – the Sistine Chapel, Steve Vai. Watching films all night. Laughter and warmth. Tomfoolery. Sexual innuendoes. Friendship. Sharing. Conversation.