Dilip Darzi

In a tucked away corner of this ever-growing city, there used to live a modest man with his modest family inside a modest tent house. This house was made by his own nimble hands a few years ago to give abode to his newly migrated family in this small crooked lane, under the green shade of a frizzy tamarind tree, which had gone unnoticed for decades by anyone living in that forgotten locality of this big fuming city. The man was fondly called Dilip’da or Dilip Darzi  by everyone passing by every day. This man, now in his late 50s, out of his sheer hard work, has by now in all these years acquired a good name for his exceptional tailoring skills, especially among the fairer sex in the locality. Even recently, his fame had not remained within the boundaries of this small lane but also had reached far and wide by the grace of his loyal customers’ word of mouth. A few days ago some pretty and young Bharat Natyam dancers from South City with big kohl-lined eyes had come to his shop to sew their blouses from him. To this, modest Dilip’da was quite surprised and asked these young girls as to why they had to travel so far to visit him, as if there were no good tailors to sew their blouses in South City.

As a matter of fact, it was quite rare for Dilip’da to get a fresh order to sew a new blouse or a new dress. Dilip Darzi was actually world famous in their locality for his super human alteration skills. He would only repair and alter all kinds of defective clothes for all kinds of women. He could get into the skin of his customers in such depth and take their precise body measurements in such detail, no lady had ever known that it was really possible before Dilip Darzi existed. And to say the least, every woman who crossed his front counter-table and entered inside his hut, invariably came out with a big, happy and satisfied smile. And in their first visit itself, they would magically become a little extra comfortable with him, freely letting him take their most intimate measurements, never complaining an inch about any unconstitutional behaviour by this respected middle-aged man towards them. There was no iota of doubt about the mastery that Dilip’da had acquired in his skillful craft to satisfy the ever-growing list of his numerous lady clients, big and small, young and old, rich and poor, always leaving them more than satiated in their peculiar alteration needs.

One day a thickly built housewife, a bit shorter than short in height to be fair, had come with a special need to shrink her defective blouse in such a way that it would reveal only an inch of her cleavage through the transparent saree she loved to wear. One day a slim teenage girl had come to him with a special demand to alter her defective skirt in such a way that it should be tight-fitted on her hips so that the taut curve of her behind is pronounced enough, and at the same time the fall should end in a flair, being careful by the inch not to cover her knees in any which way. Another day, a maid servant had come to him with a defective sleepwear in her hand, a modest free size petticoat. Dilip’da was quite surprised to see that even maids wear petticoats under their garments these days. He asked her, “Kya hua Maya ki maa? Kya karwaana hai?” She replied, “Dekhona Dilip'da... ekdum nayi hai, lekin pura defective, thoda bhi fit nahi ho raha hai, humaare size mein banake do na!” Dilip’da said, “Accha accha, ho jaayega.... par tumne kab se petticoat pehnna shuru kiya?” After a small pause, with a shy smile she says, “Nahi nahi, yeh toh memsaab ki hai, woh khud aana nahi chahti thi, iss liye mujhe bheja. Par unka size ekdum mere maafik hai. Lo na... naap lo jaldi se.”

Needless to say, how our down-to-earth Dilip Darzi had reacted to that comment, is not as interesting as the nature of the demand itself. However, this much can be said that Dilip Darzi had managed to satisfy all these customers to the T with their strange and defective demands for more than a few years of his new found life. Meanwhile, Dilip’da’s wife had been pestering him for the last few days to install a sign board for his shop, which had never existed since the time he had started his trade. Everyone just knew this place by his glorious name and the frizzy Tamarind tree. Dilip Darzi, as modest and humble as he was, also never felt the need for any signboard, considering that he was already pretty famous in the locality and all the ladies swore by his name when it came to altering a defective piece of clothing. His wife was a devout Kali bhakt and used to practise Kali Vandana in candle light inside their hut every day after dusk without fail. So her natural first choice for an apt name was “Maa Kali Tailors”. Despite her non-stop insistence, Dilip’da seemed to be quite nonchalant about her proposal and never showed any interest to do anything about it.

A few people in the neighbourhood, like the local newspaper boy, the local iron man, and one or two security guards from the nearby high-rise apartments used to come and visit them for a cup of chai and some harmless gossip every day, just to spend some leisurely time in the afternoon. His wife had already started propagating this indigenous idea of hers to all the others. And needless to say, everyone seemed to be quite excited about this proposal. One by one they started to pour in their ideas about how the colour of the signboard should be; one of them suggested some guy near the bus stand who could do outstanding artwork when it came to hand written sign boards. But Dilip’da himself never gave in to their unending enthusiasm. When they understood that Dilip’da was particularly not so much in favour of the name that his wife had suggested, they started suggesting other names to him as well, like “Karunamayee Tailors” or “Rajmaata Tailors” or “Kamala Tailors” by his daughter’s name, or simply by his own ever-shining name “Dilip Darzi Tailors” along with several others. Like they say, peer pressure is something which becomes increasingly difficult to deal with, especially as a teenager and as an ageing man like himself. Dilip’da slowly started to think deeply about their demands and started processing the real reason as to why they were after him with this queer idea of installing the signboard at any cost.

After a few months of forceful persuasion by everyone surrounding him and after giving a lot of deep thought behind naming his shop, he finally gave in to their demand and agreed to put up the signboard within a week or so. All his well-wishers along with his wife as their undisputed leader were very pleased with his decision, but yet none of them knew what name he had chosen for his shop. They kept asking him about the name whenever they got a chance but never got any answer from him. Finally the night before the sign was about to arrive from the painters, his wife asked him while having dinner, “Kya hua? Abhi bhi bola nahi aapne? Dukaan ka naam kya diya?” As usual his wife still did not get an answer from him, as he quietly kept eating his food without saying a word, looking a bit defeated. His wife said, “Kya ji? Kal humaare dukaan ka board lagne wala hai, aur aap hai ki itna chup baithe hai? Kuch hua hai kya? Kya naam diya hai, boliye na!” Just before getting up, after finishing his dinner plate he uttered, “Kal jab board aayega, tabhi dekh lena. Uske baad bolna humein... Dukaan ka naam saarthak hua hai ki nahi? Jao abhi, bohut raat ho gaya hai, ab so jao.” With a repressed smile on her face, his wife cleaned up and went to sleep, although sleeping tonight for her seemed like a distant dream that would not come to her in this highly excited and curious state of mind. Switching off the lights, she lay down on her bed on the floor, fantasising about the shining new signboard in front of their tent house about to come the very next morning.

At the end of the night, almost into dawn, Dilip Darzi’s wife had just dozed off for a while. And very early in the morning around 6 o’clock the brand new signboard arrived. Dilip’da was the first to wake up to receive his new prized possession. And he quickly started installing it all by himself before anyone else would wake up. The board was almost ready with a few gentle strikes of his hammer on the wooden frame holding the aluminium sheet, the sound of which now woke up his daughter Kamala, and then his wife. Both of them got up hurriedly and quickly ran outside to see the new signboard. There they saw Dilip’da standing with gleaming eyes and a big smile showing almost all of his yellow stained teeth holding the board by his side which read in big red Hindi letters “DEFECTIVE TAILORS”, with a small face of Goddess Kali painted on top. Notwithstanding his evident enthusiasm and not understanding what was written there, his wife’s eyebrows reduced to a confused frown, as she looked perplexed towards her daughter. Kamala had already started smiling with one hand covering her mouth trying to hide her smile from her mother. She totally consorted with her father’s exuberant energy, clearly understanding his direct and to-the-point intention. Looking at her smile, Dilip’da exclaims, “Kya re Kamala? Kaisa laga mera naam?”

How his wife actually reacted after that, and who actually translated the name to her, and how Dilip Darzi would try to console her for days, or weeks, or maybe years to come is only lore. But one thing was for sure, with or without the board, Dilip’da’s flourishing business and fame remained just the same, just as it was before.

One Tree

A girl child lives in a forest under a big tree. The tree is huge and probably hundreds of years old. Its bark is thick and its leaves are lush green. Big juicy fruits blossom in the branches of this tree which feeds so many birds, animals and also this small little girl every day. The girl calls the tree her “maa” and is convinced that she needs no one else to live her life well. She takes care of the tree with all her means, and the tree takes care of the girl. She eats the fruits from the tree and nourishes the tree by watering it every day, talking to it about her adventures in the forest, reading stories to it, and hugging it for hours.

Every day at dawn and dusk, the girl hears a distant voice from far away calling her by her name “Maya”. The voice calling her is familiar but she can’t tell who it is. She is tempted to go and find out. This goes on for several days, and her mind slowly starts to drift, it wanders away from her everyday life with her ever beloved “maa” – the huge tree she lives with. One day almost in a trance, at dawn when she wakes up, she leaves the tree and goes away following the distant voice calling her name. And she does not return.

The tree lives on without the little girl. It lives on feeding the birds and the animals that have not yet broken their trust with her. Years pass by and slowly but surely the tree starts dying of old age. Its leaves start drying off and its fruits slowly cease to blossom. The birds and animals stop coming, and its branches start decaying one by one. In this state, one day the little girl now grown up into a woman comes back. She looks at the tree in its decaying state and is consumed with guilt and sorrow. She does not know what she could to revive the tree back to how she had left it years ago. She weeps in despair, goes near the tree and sits under it hugging its bark the way she used to when she was a small girl. Time passes by, days pass by, and the girl does not leave the bark for one moment and she keeps hugging it for days to come. Slowly the girl’s body metamorphoses into the tree, becoming a part of the tree, and in time she becomes the tree.

In the next few days, this tree is again seen to sprout new and fresh green leaves in some of its branches. And in the next few months, the tree gets fully revived into its original form, just the way it was before. The birds and animals start coming back and flocking in its branches again. Maya’s sacrifice has brought back life to Mother Nature with or without her even knowing about it.

As all is well now, a little boy comes running to the tree, stands in front and looks up at it with a big smile and eyes full of wonder.

 

~ TITLES ~

Shower of Joy

Thick grey clouds have gathered in the sky and it’s about to rain any moment. A boy in his pre-teens comes out of his hut with a bucket full of water and a mug in another hand prepared to take a bath. He stands on a flat rock where he and his father normally bathe every day, and he looks up to the sky expecting the rain to fall on him and his bare body. But it’s too soon before the rain would start pouring. Unable to wait any longer, he starts his play with a fun bath he instantly creates in his own mind. He dips one mug full of water from the bucket and splashes it into the sky and jumps around to catch the water on his head just like the rain would fall on him. He enjoys this game and starts having a lot of fun by finding this novel way of imitating the rain. Although most of this invented rain falls on the ground and not on him, with every splash he hops around, smiling and laughing aloud in utter joy. This continues for a little while and there’s no end to his new found happiness inventing this fun-bath for himself.

Suddenly his father appears from nowhere and stands beside him. Looking at him, the boy freezes in fear like a cold statue completely wet, water droplets dripping from his hair, chin and gamcha. Invariably he gets a good scolding from his father shouting at the top of his voice ordering him to hurry up as he himself had not yet taken his bath for the day and it was about to rain any moment. The boy following his father’s strict orders hurries up finishing his bath properly, then dries himself and runs inside.

His father takes the next turn prepared for his bath. He comes and stands on the same rock with another bucket full of water. He starts by pouring two mugs on his head in a normal fashion like every day and stops for a moment to look up at the sky. God knows what struck his mind as the corner of his lips catch a glimpse of a brief smile. With half his head and half his body wet, he picks up a mug full of water and splashes it into the sky. Just like his little boy he hops around to catch the water on his head just like the rain would fall on him, smiling and laughing aloud in utter joy. He picks up another mug and splashes it up in the same way. And surprisingly this new found game knew no end to his juvenile happiness. This continues for a few times till suddenly he sees his wife standing beside him with crooked eyes and hands on her waist, figuring out what to tell this father of her son behaving like a child again. Both of them exchange cold yet childlike glances at each other as a mild thunder strikes and the clouds burst, starting to rain heavily.

Their son watching his father and mother’s drama in hiding from inside the hut smiles and looks up in the sky listening to the sound of rain like music to his ears.

 

~ TITLES ~

Temple Run

[Desaturated Old Film look - comic fast forward motion]

[Wide shot] Outside a temple, hundreds of people are seen going in and coming out. Devotees who are coming to visit the temple are leaving their slippers, shoes, footwear outside the temple gate before going inside. Devotees, who are coming out of the temple, are searching for their footwear, and unable to find their own footwear, are wearing some other footwear and eventually leaving the premises.

[Fast motion close-up shots of people’s feet opening their footwear before entering, and someone else coming out, wearing the same footwear and leaving – no one gets to leave with their own footwear, everyone exchanges their footwear with someone else’s]

One such devotee, comes walking towards the temple wearing a fancy dress and a designer chappal, leaves it at the door and goes inside just in the last minute before the temple doors were closing for the day. A few moments later, another man comes out of the temple, notices this fancy chappal, wears it and leaves completely unbothered about his own footwear.

[Mid-shot of all the remaining chappals disappearing one by one by someone or the other coming out of the temple]

The fancy man was the last to get out of the temple. When he gets out, there were no chappals left outside the temple and it was completely empty. Scratching his head in disbelieve, not able to find his own designer chappal or any other footwear, he goes around asking the nearby shopkeepers whether they have seen it lying anywhere. No one could give him any direction as to where his much-prized chappal had gone. In sheer disappointment he goes to a nearby tree and sits under its shade with hands on his head. Just beside there was a beggar (bare foot, torn clothes, haggard looking with grey beard) looking at him a bit surprised, he asks him what he was so worried about. The man in turn asks him in an agitated sign language whether he had seen any fancy chappal lying around. The beggar with no clue what this man was talking about just nods his head sideways.

Completely lost and dejected, this man gets up after a while and leaves the premises barefoot.

[Camera slowly zooms in to the beggar in the background] He takes out a pair of new chappals from behind his back, looking at it with big happy eyes as he starts wrapping up his belongings in a torn piece of cloth into a modest jhola. He gets up wearing his new found possession, the new pair of slippers and starts walking in the other direction with the jhola on his shoulder]

 

~ TITLES ~

The Anniversary Gift (Inspired from Tarapada Ray)

A young wife, beautiful and well dressed in a neatly ironed saree, wearing terracotta jewellery is fiddling through the aisles of a gift shop searching for the perfect gift to present to her husband on their wedding anniversary. The shopkeeper watching her for quite some time approaches her to help her out.

He says, “Confused? Ki present deben bujhtey parchen na?

She says, “Haan... asholey notun biye hoyeche toh tai thik sure na...”

He says, “Let me help you. Edike ashun... Look at this fine hand-crafted flower vase. Imported from China. High quality ceramic item!”, holding the vase in his hand with a large smile on his face.

She says, “Na... asholey barite onek kota flower vase ache... Onno kichu dekhan...”

He puts down the vase and continues, “Accha tahole edike ashun. Ei French Perfume ta dekhte paren. Notun dampotto jiboney this is a very essential item. And the perfect anniversary gift!”

She hesitates a bit and says, “Hmm... kintu o na perfume makha ta ekdom pocchondo kore na. Boley ey shob naki meyeder jonno.”

The shopkeeper slightly disappointed keeps down the perfume from his hand and says, “Oh accha... tahole ekta bhalo Italian leather er designer wallet dekhai?”

She smiles and says, “Amader biye te amra etogulo wallet peyechi je onnoder ekhon biliye dite hobe!”

Like this the shopkeeper keeping his calm, walks her around almost every aisle of the shop trying to sell her every item available which would be a suitable anniversary gift for her husband. But she finds an excuse every time saying that they already have all those items at their home and that she is looking for something different and unique. Finally the shopkeeper takes her to the book section and tells her,

“Shob cheye unique gift ki janen? A good book by a good author. Pochhondo moto ekta bhalo golper boi kine nin. Er cheye bhalo gift idea ar hoyto apna ke keu debe na. He he he...”

With a slight disappointed look on her face, she says, “Naah! Asholey amader kache na ekta golper boi o ache. Ei biye tei or ek bondhu okey gift korechilo!”

The reaction of the shopkeeper need not be described but evidently she was not really the person he was expecting to interact with when he had first approached her.

~

About a year later from that day, the same lady visits the same shop once more, and the shopkeeper recognizes her at the first glance. She smiles at him and he reciprocates in the same manner asking her, “Bhalo achen? Ebarer anniversary te ki deben thik korechen? Naki ekhono thik koren ni?”

She smiles shyly and says, “Anniversary kalke chilo. Asholey ebarey o amake ekta lamp shade gift koreche. Tai bhablam nijer jonno ekta golper boi kinei ni. Tahole lamp shade ta khub bhalo use hobe. Ki bolen?”

Just like the previous time, the shopkeeper was again left speechless, not sure how he should react to the words of this attractive, young and beautiful lady standing right in front, waiting for a response from him.

 

~ TITLES ~

Colours of Mind

NAVARASA - Nine human emotions in Indian tradition of Performing Arts, each being depicted with a single colour being poured on a black stone human idol with a blue sky in the background. These shots are alternated with contemporary dance by one or more bare bodied dancers with their full body painted with the colours as described below pertaining to each human emotion.

[Background Music will progressively change in rhythm & beats, harmony & tempo pertaining to each changing emotion]

[Background voices pertaining to each human emotion overlapped with the music]

SHRINGARA (Pleasure/Romance) - Blue

ADBHUTA (Surprise/Wonder) - Orange

VEERA (Ego/Pride) - Green

RAUDRA (Anger/Rage) - Red

BHAYA (Fear/Shock) - Black

KARUNA (Sadness/Remorse) - Indigo

HASYA (Happiness/Laughter) - Yellow

VIBHATSA (Disgust/Repulsive) - Violet

SHANTA (Peace/Calmness) – White

[Background music ends in a calm & peaceful note with a bell and shankha]

 

~ TITLES ~

Eat

[Quick shots]

A naked ape-man on four limbs eats raw fish like an animal beside a river.

A bi-pedal Neanderthal man wearing tree bark eats fruits inside a cave.

A pre-historic tribal family wearing hide-skin clothes eats meat and vegetables inside a camp.

An old historic civilization with people in armours devouring food like mad men in front of their huts.

A modest family (last century) is eating food with a spoon in an old classical home.

A modern sophisticated man is fine-dining in a high class restaurant with a fork and knife.

The same man dives for a swim in the sea from his yacht and gets eaten by a shark in the sea.

 

~ TITLES ~

Breathe

[Black Screen][Sound of a woman breathing heavily during childbirth]

[First cry of a new born baby] A baby is born with a loud wailing sound.

[Quick close-up face shots of kids playing][Faint sounds of their chatter & loud sounds of their BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of teenagers running][Faint sounds of their banter & loud sounds of their BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of young adults kissing and making love][Faint sounds of their romantic words & loud sounds of them BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of grown adults in orgasm][Faint sounds of their love-making & loud sounds of them BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of an old adult in his death bed][Faint sound of his BREATHING]

[Black screen][No sound for 2 seconds]

[Black Screen][Sound of a woman breathing heavily during childbirth]

[First cry of a new born baby] A baby is born with a loud wailing sound.

 

~ AND SO IT GOES ON ~

Strangers

[Background Narration]

“I am sitting at an outdoor cafe smoking a cigarette, drinking some coffee and writing a journal. A big statue is staring at me with big expressive eyes at the junction of roads just in front of the cafe. One South Indian man is standing underneath and admiring the statue, as he lights up a cigarette. The next minute, a Punjabi Sardar approaches him asking for a lighter in sign language. Both of them start smoking appreciating the statue.”

Punjabi: Looking upwards towards the statue says, “Bahut sudar akkha!” (Very beautiful eyes!)

Tamil: Looks at the Punjabi and exclaims nodding his head forward, “Am... Idu nalladu!” (Yeah... it’s good!)

Punjabi: Looks at the Tamil man with a small pause and says “Ki tussi kise di itazaar kar rahe ho?” (Are you waiting for someone?)

Tamil: Nodding his head sideways, “Yarum illai...” (No one...)

Punjabi: Says with a disarming smile showing the cigarette, “Lighter lai dhanavada... Thanks”

[Narration continues]

“The Tamil man smiles at him and tells him something in Tamil. And surprisingly the Punjabi replies in his own language Punjabi. Like this they go on speaking with each other for the next five minutes not understanding a single word of the other person but still somehow carrying on the conversation until they both finish their cigarettes and eventually part their ways. With the coffee gone cold in my hand, I am left quite flabbergasted by the whole drama in front of my eyes. And I realize that language after all is not merely made up of words. We humans could communicate even without it, only if we try.”

 

#THELANGUAGEPROJECT

~ TITLES ~

 

My name is Man

[TRUE INCIDENT]

A middle aged woman is talking to her car washman [Camera POV from woman to man]. Car washman is staring at her with big eyes and a gullible smile almost like a loyal pet dog.

Woman: “300 rupiya har mahina. Roz gaari aur bike dono ka dhulai chahiye." [Bengali translation] "300 taka proti mashe. Roj gaari ar bike dutoi dhute hobe.” She looks at him up and down with slightly crooked eyebrows and continues after a pause, "Naam kya hai?" [Bengali translation]“Tomar naam ki?”

Excited by the question, the man’s eyes grow bigger and with an increased enthusiasm he says,

Man: “Mera naam MAN.” [Bengali translation] "Amar naam MAN."

Woman: "Haan? Kya? [Bengali translation]“Hyaan? Ki?”

Man: “MAN.”

Woman: “Man???” Totally surprised, she asks him after a pause, "Baap maa ne naam rakha hai?" [Bengali translation]“Baba maa naam diyeche?”

The smile on the man’s face disappears as he looks down and says,

Man: "Baap maa ko dekha nahi kabhi bhi" [Bengali translation]“Baba maa ke dekhi ni kokhono...”

Woman: "Oh... phir?" [Bengali translation]“Oh... tahole?”

The man slowly lifts up his face slightly staring into a void and says, "Mera koi naam nahi tha. Bachpan se jisko jo marzi kuch bhi naam bulate the" [Bengali translation]“Amar kono naam chilo na. Choto belaye je jar khushi ultopalta naam diye dakto...”

[Quick flashback shots of him as a kid at different ages]

Different people in different situations calling a street boy with different slang names like,

[0 to 5 years age] “Ei baccha!”

[5 to 10 years age] “Chhotu” “Chhotka” “Puchke” “Phochka”(joking tones)

[10 to 15 years age] “Kelaney” “Bolda” “Gadha” “Paatha” (taunting tones)

[15 to 20 years age] “Bokachoda” “Gandu” ”Shuorer baccha” (violent tones)

[cut to]

Man: "Par main toh yeh sab kuch bhi nahi hoon... mein toh insaan hoon... Iss liye bada hoke maine hi apna naam diya MAN" [Bengali translation] "Kintu ami toh shey shob konotai noi... ami toh manush... Tai boro hoye ami e amar naam dilam MAN”, the enthusiastic smile comes back on his face as he stares straight into the eyes of the woman. [Camera POV from woman to man][fade out]

 

~ TITLES ~

Cyclist’s Rhythm

[Background music – Uplifting rhythm and musical beats made with mostly cycle sounds like cycle bell, cycle chain sound, cycle stand sound, metal sounds etc. slowly increasing pace][Inspiration from AR Rahman’s track from MF Hussain movie Meenaxi]

Quick shots of different people (newspaper wala, milkman, dhobi, clerk, postman, mistry, security guard, cycle rickshaw wala etc.) riding cycle from rider’s POV/OTS, alternated with quick shots of a cycle mechanic fixing a kid’s cycle (chains and tyres) with more cycles, cycle vans, cycle rickshaws visible in the background. [Short cuts get quicker and increase in frequency with the cycle beats increasing tension in screenplay]

[Last scene] The same kid is riding the repaired cycle in full speed on a busy road with a huge smile on his face as if he is flying like a free bird. [Music has reached the crescendo in full high pace][3 shots of the kid riding the cycle at full speed][Wide-shot][Mid-shot][POV-shot] Suddenly he stumbles on a pothole and falls on the road precariously. [Music stops abruptly with a screeching of bus tyres applying sudden brakes]

[cut to Black Screen][pin-drop silence]

 

 

SHORTCUT - The Crescent Smile (Version 2.0)

Cobalt blue eyes. I knew they were black but somehow I felt blue – dark cobalt blue. He was sitting inside a bright yellow taxi, next to the driver’s seat – his eyes staring at me, piercing through me – daring me to dance – in that cold cloudy night.

“Kahaan jaana hai?” he asked.

I could hear him but almost could not. I was somewhere else – lost in the bustle of man-made machinery, interrupted by strange honks, punctuated with desperate curses of a child’s distant cry, captivated by moving laser lights. The lights; they were sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue that looked like the arctic cold.  But if you go too close to it, you will feel wounded by its unnatural heat. They’re all moving. Faster and more ferocious than any creature God has put on earth.

I could see insects, all kinds of insects, crawling in lines – straight lines, crooked lines, broken lines – all kinds of lines. I do not know what they feed on but they are so big they might defeat you in a wrestle. Some of them are refugees running in a loop from one shelter to another in a no-man’s-land, pushed and shoved with hollow begging bowls up their starving mouths. Yet some wander alone without caring about any of these lines. They walk alone – a very few of them, and you can hardly notice them in the struggle of all these lines. Maybe they are the bugs, bugged down by the histrionics of this Machiavellian machine that they find themselves stuck in. Maybe, I too am just one of them – another immigrant bug hopelessly searching for refuge in the conundrums of this alien civilization.

In the confusion of this loud and flashing bright circus of man-made marvels, I looked up at the Prussian blue sky. It had a faint crescent shape and was dotted with a few spare stars, dazzling like diamond studs on a beautiful black face. The faintness of the moon was not because of the few strands of hovering rain clouds, but the clouds formed by exhaust pipes of the circus. I could see them again – the insects – only this time they were wearing Louis Vuitton shades, carrying Armani bags as they walked in lines in their Gucci shoes, soaking up the chimney clouds. The neon board across the road displayed ‘Elixir of Achievement’. And I was lost again.

A sudden gush of cool breeze woke me up from my amnesia and made me realise that I was on my way to where I came from. It was getting late. I looked back at the yellow taxi and those hypnotic cobalt blue eyes which had caught a grey hue by now. Like a spider web getting dense and denser.

“Haldiram’s”, I said and stared back trying to clamber my way through the web, to the core of its nest, to find out what the spider was thinking. I tried scratching on the hard surface of his emotional veneer but I couldn’t read a thing. Maybe the spider did not understand my language. Maybe, I had not yet mastered spider-tongue to perfection. He kept staring at me as I opened the back door and sat right behind, without waiting for him to say anything.

He turned his head back, like an owl, with a small earthen cup in his left hand that exhumed fumes of hot tea and kept staring at me. Not into my eyes, but into me – as if he wanted to know what I was – man or maggot, where I came from – mars or moon, what I really ate – meat or mite. For a split second, I felt stupid by this stupefying scene. And I decided to interrupt the silence.

“Haldiram’s pata hai naa? Airport ke paas?”

He said nothing and kept staring blank at me. There was this emptiness and the crawling spider in it. The void continued.

“Chalenge kya?”

This question to my relief cut the numbness. And he finally spoke.

“Nahi sir, main chala nahi sakta. Woh aa raha hain”.

The man’s voice sounded gross. Like the grunt of a pig. The kind of grunt you don’t hear but feel in your spine. Or maybe, like the rotten engine roar of a vintage car, just to sound better. I was reminded of Mr. Jigsaw from a movie series where he killed people in the most psychotic ways, using machines he designed just for the purpose. He kept his victims in chambers, and tied them, and clamped them, and stitched them to those machines and yet gave them an option to live, only through an ordeal of excruciating pain and plunder.

Somehow, I felt relief in the pig’s grunt. As he turned in front, still holding the cup in his left hand, I noticed something. His right hand was not there. It was cut off from the blade of his shoulder. And the right sleeve of his shirt was folded till the elbow. A few answers to my questions started gathering and immediately I was transported to one of Jigsaw’s chambers, with rotting rats spilled like the vomit of an addict, stinking like the foul burp of a cannibal, sweating like mating snakes. And there was this pig, chained down in the centre, clamped to an iron chair. This time Jigsaw had his victim’s right hand stitched to a part of the chair. And the pig yelled and shrieked and cried grunting for help. But his only option was to cut his right hand so that he could live – and be free. He could, but he could not. He could not, but he had to. At this moment Jigsaw enters, and the other door crunches open.

The driver stepped inside with one of his legs jostling for some space underneath the steering wheel when the man grunted again. “Haldiram", looking at the driver with one of his eyebrows arched in a curious question.

The driver, with half his body still outside, turned his head to look at me. A look to decide which family of maggots I belonged to. Or, which city of moon I came from. Or which part of the mite I liked the best. This time, I said nothing and waited. He sat behind the wheel, revved up the engine and the car slowly started to roll.  I saw a picture of goddess Kali, half the size of my palm, stuck in the middle of the dashboard. It had fluorescent light bulbs twinkling all around. This driver must be in his mid-thirties. With a rough beard glued all over his face. I couldn’t decipher his partner’s age though.  Maybe he was in his late thirties or perhaps, easily more than forty-five. I couldn’t care anymore.

The car was moving now and as the world outside the window started to blur, I thought I should ask him how he had cut his hand. Maybe he would say by an accident or from birth or by the Jigsaw.  But the truth was I didn’t want to hear that grunt any more.

As the cab started gaining speed, three of us were the only souls who were still. And everything else passed by like lightning. As I looked outside the window, the laser lights streaked past - sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue. Insects, lines, bugs, everything came back. I shuddered at the sight and almost compulsively brought myself to the dark blue sky, which was calm and quiet. The cool breeze of this darkness was feathering my face. There weren’t many stars left by now, and the moon looked like a dusty relic kept inside a forgotten museum. This relic, you can’t hold, nor can you keep. You can only see it and feel good about it, or at the most feel ancient with it. The few strands of rain clouds had by now collected in a bunch, and it looked like it would rain. My lips followed the crescent shape and I smiled.

I remembered a shortcut underneath a flyover, which would save me some notes. An insignificant amount may be, but I preferred that route. It was through a dingy slum. There were no glittering lights there to advertise the poverty – only the reds, blues and greens of some uncultured, unscripted, vulgar emotions. There were no lines of insects, only some leftover carcasses of their dilapidated dreams. There were no loud honks, but an eerie silence of sanity. It’s dingy and it’s a slum – with no addresses, no names written on any of the unsettled walls. I liked taking this route. I liked seeing what most people won’t see. I liked being what most people would never want to be.

“Yaha se right le lijiye. Shortcut padega”, I called out to the driver as I saw the flyover approaching.

“Right nahi le sakta saab, road kharaab hai aur light bhi nahi hain”, the driver shot back.

The driver sounded quite normal, much unlike his partner. So I decided to persist. And I did. But he insisted back.

“Election time hai saab. Mohammedan area – total basti - bohut lafda chal raha hai. Safe rehna hi accha hai. Mussalmaan refugee log aapko pata hai na saheb? Bhagwaan jaane keedo ke jaise kaha kaha se aa jate hain? Aap samajh rahe hai na?”

I  did not understand. Strangely perplexed, I did not want to understand. I felt a sting. I do not know where. And I thought I should say something, but the sting made me reluctant and I forgot what to say. The sting hopped, skipped and jumped somewhere deep inside.

“I hope someday you will understand”, I mumbled to myself.

The car kept moving. I just stared at the back of his head. I could see a pair of invisible eyes. I know they are not there. But I want them. I want the spider. I want to snatch it. I want to crush it between my teeth. I want to gulp it down with a bottle of poison. So that it’s dead for sure, and it never comes back.

I looked outside the window to feel the breeze. But I couldn’t feel it. All I could see or feel was something very different, something very difficult – the sting. It hopped, skipped and jumped still inside. The outside seemed like movie reels, moving faster than before – they come and they go. Before I could realise they were gone. Something else came again. I couldn’t make out. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. My mind was clogged. I couldn’t breathe and I searched for the calm. I searched for the Prussian blue, and the diamond studs, and the crescent shape. But everything was hazy, unclear, faded and lost - except for the sting. It hopped, skipped and jumped. Incessant still, it stung. And free from this sting is what I want to be. I had learned, rather taught myself a truth – freedom is only another word for control over the self.

The car turned right on the main-road crossing and things started slowing down. The sting was in control, for now. The window frame and everything outside it started making sense again and I relaxed a bit. I knew that it was the final leg of my journey and I wanted to feel the cool breeze for one last time.

I could see two coconut trees, standing tall like two siblings – dark and handsome. It must have been decades for them standing by the high-road, watching laser lights and smelling man made clouds. I saw two kids – a boy and a girl. They were playing badminton under a halogen lamp-post with two broken rackets and a crushed paper ball. It was about to rain but they didn’t care. I saw an old, old woman. She was walking at a right angle, with a stick to balance the extra weight and a head full of snow white hair. One of the bugs may be, I thought to myself.  I saw a banyan tree standing like a dead man trying to cross a busy road to the other side. There were no leaves, only the crooked branches waiting to catch the moon in an embrace. It had stopped watching laser lights, and stopped smelling man made clouds, and stopped feeling sick about it. I could see another person hugging the trunk of that naked tree. I do not know what state he was in, but I could see him find solace in love.

The car pulled over just opposite Haldiram’s as instructed and the moving pictures stopped to a pause. Suddenly everything became still. Did I feel the breeze? Yes. I did. I smiled and took out a note written 50 rupees from my wallet. I handed it over to the driver and opened my door. Before stepping out, I turned to him and said,

“Main aapko kuch kehna chahta hoon...”

I got out and shut the door. Both partners were by now bending over in their own ways to listen to what I had to say. I leaned a little forward so that my eyes were in line with that of my pig and the dead spider.

“Main bhi Mussalmaan hoon”, I said. “Keeda nahi, insaan hoon.” – Like the clouds and the birds, the rivers and the breeze, the moon that floats with us as we sleep in the coffers of a new day. I am like the raindrops that will soon drizzle upon us.

The cobalt blue eyes looked blank for a moment, perhaps in shame.

As I walked away searching for the Prussian blue, it rained. I took a deep whiff of my wet earth, smiled to my sting and kept walking in the pouring rain.

পথের গান

তোহার দেখা পাইতে গিয়ে আমি অন্ধ হয়েছি।
তোহার গান গাইতে গিয়ে আমি সুর হারিয়েছি।
এ কি ছলনা যে তোহার দেখা মেলেনা ?

মন্দির মস্জিদ আখাড়া তোর গির্জা গিয়েছি।
দু টাকা কি দু হাজারের পাথর কিনেছি।
পাথর মিলেছে, তার অর্থ মেলেনি।

তান্ত্রিক তন্ত্র সাধনায় মন্ত্র পড়ে কালা জাদু করে।
একটাই জাদু জানি আমি, সে কালা জাদু নহে।
এই জাদুর মায়ায় বুঝি প্রেম কাহারে কহে!

বন্ধুগনকে সেই পথ দেখাতে আমি হাপিয়ে মরেছি।
নিজের পথ যে কোন দিকে আজ সে দিশা হারিয়েছি।

পথ মেলা কি সহজ কথা, পথে থাকলে এতো ব্যাথা ?

Furniture Family

Shopkeeper opens furniture shop shutter early in the morning. The sunlight falls directly on a bean bag lying in a corner. The bean bag is Ramu, the house servant.

RAMU (Servant talking in Bangladeshi accent): 

“Arey baba re.. abar aishya gesey gambat ta shokal shokal.” “Kichhukhhon shanti te ghumoteyo debe na haramjada ta..”

 

BORO BOUMA (Big Dining Table): 

“Ramu!! Kirey?? Ekhono ghumochhish??”

“Shokal hoye geche…dokaan khuley geche… boli cha ta ke banabey?”

 

BORO CHELE (Big Wardrobe): 

“Aah! Astey astey… eto chellachho keno?”

“Baba jege jabey je!”

 

BORO BOUMA: “Thamo toh! Jegey jabey toh jabey..”

“Boli ghor er kaj kore ta ke ami chhara?”

 

RAMU (hiding in background): “Maa Jogodatti… shob e naki uni koren!”

 

BORO BOUMA: “Chhoto bou toh saradin nijeke ainae dekhteyi byashto..”

“Oi dekho, seje gujey dibbi dulchhey boshey boshey. Uh, Nyaki Kothakar!” (Red Velvet Revolving Chair)

“Ar oi dekho tomar Chhoto Bhai…” (Single Cot)

“..gaja teney ghumochhen”

“Uh, Kumbhokorno ar Surpanakha..juti mairi..ami kintu ar shojjo korte parbo na...”

 

 

BABA (Big Antique Sofa): Singing Shyama Sangeet

“Shokoli tomari iccha

Icchamoi Tara tumi

Tomar karma tumi koro maa

Loke bole kori ami

Icchamoi Tara tumi”

 

“Bouma !!! Cha holo?”

 

RAMU: “Ei..eitto hoye esheche Boro kotta”

BABA: “Ja bolechhis..hoye eshechhey boiki. Aj ei shesh din amar toder sathe. Kal thekey ei buro lok takey ar dekhtey hobey na toder.”

 

BORO CHELE: “Erokom keno bolchho Baba?”

 

BABA: “Bolchhi ki ar michhi michhi.”

(Tint changes to sepia) - “Jobey thekey toder Maa gotow hoyechhen, tobey thekeyi amar mon tekey ni ei bari tey.”

BABA: “Tobey thekeyi porey achhi ei dhulor modhye.”

BABA: “Keu pochheyo na amake.”

BABA: “Tai chollam ami!”

 

RAMU (in background): “Buro ki bolchey re? Chollo?”

RAMU: “Chollen kothae Boro Kotta?”

 

BABA: “Jekhane jachhi amader moto lokeder kodor achhey…shonman achey…toder moto..”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Ashun Ashun!”

Shopkeeper welcomes a customer inside the shop.

 

BABA: “Oi dakh.. [camera starts moving from Shopkeeper back to Sofa]

oi..mone hochhey..eshey geche..”

 

SHOPKEEPER (showing the revolving chair): “Ei dekhun notun maal. Brand New!”

SHOPKEEPER (in background): “Dekhun..dekhun..touch korun..touch korun..”

 

CHOTO BOUMA: “Do you like what you see?”

 

CLIENT: “Hmm..kharap na..ta koto discount deben etar jonye?”

 

CHOTO BOUMA: “Discount? Amar oporey? Fuck You Dude!”

 

RAMU: “Ei boudi Khishti dilo re..”

 

BABA: “Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram..”

 

CLIENT: “Achha ota chharun..shob thekey beshi discount kontar oporey

ache?”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Eitto ..ei dekhun..”

SHOPKEEPER: “..original teakwood, vintage looks..”

SHOPKEEPER: “..ekta besh roishy byapar ache. Ki bolun?..60%..”

 

CLIENT: “Discount??!!”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Aggey hyan…”

SHOPKEEPER (in background): “..pack korey dei?”

 

CLIENT: “Pack..and Post”

 

ACT II

[Bhojpuri remix "Patli Kamariya" playing in background. Baba Sofa opens his eyes slowly as if in a trance. Sees half naked girls dancing and one big fat guy fully sloshed dancing with them under bright disco lights]

Sofa:

3(a)Dialogue1: Ami kothaye?

3(b)Dialogue2: Ki hocche?

3(c)Dialogue3: Era kara?

 

Sofa - "E ki? Era to pagol!"

 

Sofa- Nana, naanaa, naaaah...! (while PK walks towards him)

 

LOUD scream from sofa "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" (2 seconds - No music. Black Screen. Twisting sound of old spring after PK sits on sofa)

 

(Girl coming towards sofa)

Sofa:"Ei, edike na bolchi. Edike na!"

Sofa:"Bosho na ma. Amar boyosh hoyeche"

 

(When girl sits on sofa)

Sofa:"Na na naaa ... Bachaooooo"

[The music gets louder and video zooms out from the ceiling] 

What is Art? What is Craft?

Art if defined in one word, is simply nothing but expression. Art can be defined as pronounced expressions of life, in any form. It does not matter whether you are a painter or a sculptor, a musician or a dancer. You can be a great artist by being a gardener, if you are able to express your passion for life fully and exuberantly through that medium. Not only that, art also has the power to move an audience emotionally and evoke a thought process in the viewer's mind. I believe that the primary goal of art is very emotional, not necessarily political or social, but mostly very personal. The moment it starts serving a social purpose or relates itself to a political scenario, it ceases to be art and turns itself into propaganda. Art is not propaganda, it should never be. Art is simply someone's emotional expression of how they've perceived and experienced life.

But yes, if this expression is mundane or common, there is nothing artistic about it. For any expression to become art, it has to be pronounced, or in simpler words, it should be overflowing with emotions. Any human expression overflowing with pure unassuming emotions, has the potential to become art. Most common people are either too shy, or too rigid to be able to express themselves so freely, thus making art so uncommon in our concrete world.  An artist's job is to express freely and fully, evoking real emotions in the viewer's heart. Art when perceived, essentially enters through the brain, passes through the mind and eventually ends up changing the heart. That, when happens is true art.

Yes, artists are different, because they cannot be mundane. Mere fodder cannot satisfy the hunger for their kind. They feed on the phenomenon of life itself. That is why most artists are always so full of life and eccentric by nature. They don't need to follow any discipline or a set routine made by society for them. They are free to make their own rules, their own space, and their own time. And that, they should be allowed to. Because a bird can fly only so much if you put it in a cage. And needless to say, a cage is not the most convenient place for a bird to spread it's wings.

You often hear about artists being so engrossed in their creation, that they forget to eat, drink, sleep or even respond to any external worldly stimulation. The process of creating art is so introspective and overwhelming that this experience itself becomes the food for the artist. This process in it's essence is totally inclusive, spiritual and meditative in nature. In this process, artists will often lose connection with ground realities, and find themselves connected to some higher realm of existence, which in a way guides the artist to create art through their humanly perceived skills. This connection to a higher energy field makes us artists realize that we are not really the authoritative creators of our art. We artists just possess some exceptional human skills, and are nothing but a conduit from a higher and more vast imperceptible realm to this tangible mortal worldly realm.

The reasons for creating Art, and the consequences of perceiving Art, are both very closely related to the existence of duality in our nature. Duality in simple terms means the existence of two sides in the same coin; like male and female, day and night, good and bad, so on and so forth. Duality in our nature establishes movement, which is essentially a journey from one place to another. The purpose of art is also to create movement. It is only possible for a piece of life as we know it, to experience this duality in some form. And it is only humanly possible to feel this movement, the journey that happens between the two extremes of duality. Due to the presence of you and me, a conversation can start. And this conversation which satisfies the bare necessity of human expression, when cultured, inevitably turns itself into art sooner or later - like a seedling transforming itself into a tree in full bloom.

I am glad and grateful that I am able to see this happening every moment of my life. As an artist, the ability to perceive this very happening is my true gift, neither my skills nor my creations. Thus in essence, Art can be defined as purely an individualistic expression which moves the viewer in some way, either emotionally, physically or energetically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Craft on the other hand is often mistaken or confused with Art by the general mass of people. This misconception has prevailed for centuries especially in India, due to lack of progressive art related education in general. Indians for ages have taken pride in considering their craftsmanship skills as art. Generations of so-called artists have been replicating exactly what their forefathers had been painting for hundreds of years in the past - for example traditional art forms such as the likes of Madhubani, Raghurajpur, Kalighat, Warli, Tanjore, so on and so forth. Jamini Roy, for example created his own signature style of art drawing inspiration from these traditional art forms, but eventually our society has inevitably converted it into a form of craft. In present age there are schools who teach children how to draw in Jamini Roy style. Jamini Roy in his time did create art, but today's children replicating his works can be safely termed as a craft.

Replication is not Art. Replication is a skill. Replication is a Craft. The same holds true even for some European Renaissance Painters who could copy a portrait or a figure exactly how they saw it in reality, but often lacked in original expression. If a painting looks exactly the same or even quite similar to what it is being drawn from - either another painting, a photograph or even the reality, where is the individual expression of the artist? As a viewer where can I see how the artist is feeling while creating that piece of art? Yes, even when life or the real world can inspire most artists through some strong experiences and poignant moments, the artist has to find a way of expressing it in his own style. He has to find his own way to stroke his brush on the canvas. Then only it shall become art, not otherwise, not until he unlearns how to replicate from others. Till then he remains a craftsman but not an artist.

In hindsight, an artist does not need to be a good craftsman himself in order to become a great artist. An artist is an artist because he thinks in the language of art, and not because he does it. The idea in Art is more often than not, greater than execution of the piece itself. On the other hand, when it comes to the execution, the Craft is always greater than the idea of Art itself. There could be a thousand masons who built the Taj Mahal with their own hands, but they were not the artists, they were the craftsmen. The artist was Shah Jahan who thought about the idea of building it. But think about it, however great an artist he might have been, could he have built it with his own hands?

The artist is privileged to be endowed with the power to imbibe an idea of creation, and henceforth the craftsman finds his way to manifest this idea into matter and reality. Having said that, Art is not greater than Craft, neither the opposite. Both are essential for each other to survive and evolve together. Just like the ultimate truth in the concept of duality, one is nothing without the other. One cannot exist without the other. Art and Craft although very different in meaning and essence, will continue to be pronounced in the same breath by most of us till the time they both shall exist.

আমি কি ভালো ?

আমি কি ভালো ?
নাকি অতটাও ভালো নই...
আমি কি কালো ?
নাকি অতটাও কালো নই...

এমনও আছে কোনো তপ্ত দেশে
যে নিজেকে ফর্সা মনে করে।
এমনও আছে কোনো সুপ্ত ক্লেশে
যার আনন্দ মনে ধরে।

খারাপ নেশা ধরেছিস তো
মনে কিসের এত ভয় ?
চরস গাঁজা আফিম তামাক
তাতে কি সত্যিই ক্ষতি হয় ?

ক্ষতি হয়, ক্ষতি হয়...
তবে শুধু নেশা দ্রব্যে নয়...
ক্ষতি হয়, ক্ষতি হয়...
কিসে ? শুধু মাত্র ভয়ে...

এই ভয়ই হল সর্বনাশা,
ভয়ের চোটে উধাও আশা...
ভয় হল এক গড়ল সম;
বল ! নির্ভয় হয়ে থাকব মম।

তুচ্ছ যাহা মনে ধরে, তুচ্ছ তাহা নয়,
গুচ্ছ হয়ে জমা হয় সে পাহাড় সম ভয়।
ভয়ে ভয়ে কত কি ক্ষয় সে তো বলার নয়,
এ জীবনের চেয়ে বড় তোফা আর কি কিছু হয়?