Untitled

i am frustrated

2011-06-27T12:11:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've done something worthwhile. Something that's new. Something that's mine. Something that's me.

It's good to be a little self obsessed. What's the point otherwise to live a life that's drafted out by so many but you.

2011-04-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

mokashi is looking for a flat mate

for a nice little home with a view,

left to the mercy of empty fate.

mokashi is looking forward to company

of a nice young girl

preferably with an interesting point of view and funny.

mokashi is anxious

for time is running by

and the flat feels emptier with sounds that echo and die.

alas! there are so few

interested and interesting,

there's no waiting in queue.

where are they?

the good, single, working women

of Big City Bombay?

weathered letters

2011-03-19T00:34:00.000-07:00

from	Prachi Mokashi
to		rohini mokashi punekar
cc		Ravi Mokashi-Punekar , mithu
date		Tue, Jul 27, 2010 at 1:14 AM
subject		Re: [Fwd: Hi]
mailed-by		gmail.com

...Bombay is really wet these days, and I completely detest its rains. Today when I came out of Andheri station, water was clogged in many parts and streams were flowing fast. I had to cross this one stretch to get to the other side and my one chappal got taken by a little stream. I kept following the chappal as it floated from one stream to another. Felt like laughing and crying at the same time. After a minute of walking behind it...I had almost given up when a little dwarf person came to me and showed me where my chappal had stopped floating. I was quite disgusted to go into the water and get it. I must have shown my disgust quite clearly, so the poor guy went in himself to get it. Very nice of him, I was touched. Bombay has its share of nice people and incidents.

~~~

When you miss the yellow of the sun

And everything looks stone cold.

When you catch a whiff of that perfume,

Which makes you dream of the rains.

When you look out for dry patches of land

As you cross a sea of puddles.

It's summer again,

And I wish it would rain.

Reminiscing a view from the 16th floor

2011-01-31T08:39:00.000-08:00

A view from the 16th floor
A grey, sky scraping city scape
A piece of sea
And an open blue of departing airplanes and hot-air balloons advertising mobile-phone network providers.

A view from the 16th floor
As you gulp down dinner- too hungry to chew
Reliving the day spent
On the ground.

2010-11-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

so mokashi wanted to go back after a year
her bosses said, "No! Work needs you here..."
No luck??, asked mokahi
My friends are all going to be there...?
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!

corporate weight

2010-11-13T22:56:00.000-08:00

three lumps of a tummy, a disappearing chin,

and deep sleep that controls every idle moment of a 15 minute taxi ride.

i've put on weight- ugly weight,

caused when the mind is constantly at work,

and the body always at ease.

when life revolves around hard-selling 30 seconders

to unknown children from unknown backgrounds.

when one's conscience goes against one's actions

and every day is just another compromise.

it's weight- ugly weight.

unpublished/ published

2010-10-16T22:51:00.000-07:00

Under Renovation - draft - Delete

Today I saw a little poster in the ladies compartment of my train. Awkwardly divided into many partitions, a man had his pictures taken in various kinds of clothing. A faded denim jacket, a checkered red shirt, bare-chested with a suave, seductive look on his face. Bad typography under all these pictures said, "Do you have many personalities? Consult Dr. ...."

While I stared at this poster, two women sitting in front of me were deep in conversation about their weddings. Each showed their husband/fiancee's photographs on their phones with a mix of curiosity and shyness glowing on their faces. They look old I thought to myself, old enough to marry atleast.

But then many women in the big city of Bombay do not settle down early. I have more 30 year old female friends than I could have imagined till last year.

Sleep - draft - Delete

To celebrate the approaching weekend, Iyer and I decided to go watch Inception on Friday. We were expecting something thrilling, something that would take us away from the mundane. But all the film did was faff seemingly cryptic nonsense about the subconscious and put me to sleep. I've never slept while watching a film in a theatre and I felt quite embarassed after fifteen minutes of that blessed nap.

I sleep very easily these days. All I need is my head to touch the pillow. Perhaps it's the rains. Bombay rains are very different from Guwahati rains

Untitled post - draft - Delete

bus, train, bus, ric, bus, bus, cab, vadapav, idli, bhajipav, sandwich, kulfi, gola, pav...bombay
hindi, marathi,english, hinglish,telegu, bangla,gujarati...bombay
highway, puddle, construction, sea-link, sea, breeze, fish... bombay

Untitled post - draft - Delete

When I was little, a friend from school had come to visit me one day. I was excited to show her around the NID campus and so we didn't stay home for too long. I think I wanted to show off how big my home actually was...:) Of course it sounds naive and silly right now.

The institute felt different then. A long, broad, dark corridor with patches of summer light greeted you on the first floor. Looms set with colourful threads, a long table with fading prints

Untitled post - draft - Delete

finding a forgotten photograph
buying strange coloured hair clips
reading a note left on the table,
testing a new song
staring at familiar faces pass by

A view

2010-09-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

I shifted into a new house recently. A 1 bhk with two doors, two loos and a view. Many buildings surround mine and by dusk, once the lights come on, facets of upper middle class life get framed within each window. Bright television sets, staring families, working kitchens minus the good smells, shorts and pajamas forgotten on the clothes line. It's all very boring to look at after a point but for a hill that breaks the monotony. Gilbert Hill is a surprise element. It's rocky, it's green and birds live in it. I like my new house with it's single view.

2010-07-23T23:24:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I went out to shoot.
Hop into a ric, slip into a walk
Watch the world
And listen to it as music.

Moodflings in the ladies compartment

2010-06-15T08:57:00.000-07:00

Bhooosss!!!...A huge crowd of women stick like bees at the entrance of the second class ladies compartment. Some have a determined, ready to take on the world look on their face, some are silent and impassive as if hanging by a pole near the doorway is as everyday as going to the loo. They already look exhausted. I watch a tiny drop of sweat trickle down from behind a young girl's ear before I dose off till Lower Parel.

~
It's 12:45 am. A small cluster of women await an approaching train. The time has had no effect on their capacities of talking. The second class ladies compartment no longer holds its distinct position; many men- drunk and otherwise jump into the compartment without any hesitation. I am the only woman; the chirping ladies very smartly have got into the empty first class. The window seat as usual is an attraction and I take no time in claiming it. As the train starts moving from Mahalaxmi to Lower Parel to Elphinston to Dadar, more and more men pour in. Some coldly stare in my direction, some read the previous day's papers, some nod off. I'm a little nervous and work hard on concentrating somewhere else. The monsoon night flies past our train. It's cool and tries its best to cover the many bad smells of Bombay.

~
It's a Sunday and most people who travel today are shopping or visiting family and friends. I'm attending a film festival and the music on my mp3 player has pushed up my tempo of following the entire process of catching a train. The beats and sounds match the pace at which the fast train moves. Bridges, stations, people, other trains pass me by in perfect symphony. The train is very sparsely populated. A young Muslim woman leans out of the doorway. Her black burkha flies as the trains takes speed. Another train zips past us. It's noisy and super fast. I can hardly see the windows. The young woman in her flying burkha against the flashing, white serpent of steel- I want to take a photorgraph.

a little narcissistic

2010-06-12T00:05:00.000-07:00

Every day
Over the past month
Mokashi
Runs to Andheri Station
Leaps into local trains
Fast walks to a big building
Fast forwards through ridiculous films
Scribbles strange lines of apparent scripts
Speeds into Famous
Chops footage for the quickest promo
Yousendits to the boss
Dashes into the sound studio
Hastens everybody else too
Slaps a mix, shoves a pendrive into the machine, copies the little 30 seconder!
Jumps into another train
Eats half a meal, sleeps a few hours before she jumps awake again.
Every day
Over the past month
Mokashi...

spot #02

2010-05-01T02:06:00.000-07:00

spot #02- anti terrorism from Prachi Mokashi on Vimeo.

Made as part of my first film project at NID. Had some wonderful experiences shooting on a brand new bus that the depot gave us to ride around the city. The crowd in the bus are a group of people who sat around the whole day just to see the shoot!
The challenge of this film was to communicate something grave and complicated in the most simple manner. Although much to my dismay, most people still don't understand it...

spot #01

2010-05-01T02:03:00.000-07:00

spot #01- worldspace from Prachi Mokashi on Vimeo.

Made as part of my earliest film project at NID. I was in splits while shooting it inspite of the stress. :)

2010-04-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

Things not to do while in Bombay:
• Fumble on the phone.
• Refuse a good meal.
• Be quiet.
• Climb a moving train.
• Not discuss your salary.
• Expect good work everywhere just because it’s Bombay.
• Work for a celebrity who has lost his sheen.
• Stare at a seemingly known face.
• Miss the countryside on a local train.

2010-04-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

RESTART

happy realisation!

2010-01-06T22:47:00.000-08:00

Last night at 12 a.m. I tried a popular software called Skype. Being new to its interface and abilities, I was quite taken by its zero expense efficiency. The reasons for finally giving in to yet another chatting device was something more emotional. All my friends, sitting in various quarters of the country had decided to come together to wish Pragya a happy birthday.

It was a strange affair- to listen and narrate stories of our lives since our graduation to a microphone hidden somewhere on our computers. Mridu hosted a conference call which basically caused a lot of us to talk and be silent in perfect unison. The topic of our conference, other than wishing Pragya, was ofcourse about our many jobs.

The many graphic designers were talking of stupendously high packages that they had turned down. I must admit that I did feel like the lighter one sitting on a see-saw, unable to push herself to rise to the top and see the landscape. We (the probable filmmakers) kept silent or sarcastically joked or slept off before we could feel any worse about our present jobs and salaries. The only factor that remained constant and common were the dissatisfied descriptions about the kind of work we were all doing.

I don't know what kind of happiness we are all in search for these days. Meaningful work, a fabulous pay or that confident independence and freedom from conventional norms of the big bad world. Is it just a matter of time and persistence that will answer these wants? Or will these wants grow as we grow? Life can be enjoyed simply too right...or am I being a stubborn pseudo idealist?

I couldn't sleep much after we all signed off from Skype. These questions are perhaps here to stay for good and perhaps we'll all choose to answer them, bit by bit, through our individual pursuits of happiness.

2010-01-04T04:50:00.000-08:00

'in and out of classes'

2010-01-01T23:25:00.000-08:00

The last time I left Ahmedabad
that familiar nostalgia crept in quickly.
I envied everybody but me,
For they had that desired time, space and company.

I found a plastic bag of old notebooks
As I packed my bags in silence.
I pulled one out, flipped through its used pages.
In an hour I had relived forgotten moments and phases.

Nôdir Gaan

2009-12-29T22:48:00.000-08:00

Nôdir Gaan (A song for the river) from Prachi Mokashi on Vimeo.

The rhythms and melodies of a river are much like a song. Both hold the traditions of the past and pass them downstream to generations of the future. The Brahmaputra is one such river. In Assam, it is home to many people who hail from different parts of India. From the hardworking fisherman who ventures out each day to feed his family to the mother who sings to her newborn as she weaves vibrant patterns on a wooden loom, every community that shapes its life around the river has a story to tell.

It is these stories that the film Nodir Gaan narrates; stories of anonymous but heroic negotiations with the many moods of the river, which communities situated near and around Guwahati make as a part of their everyday life.

window seat

2009-11-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve been living in the big city of Bombay these days; Mumbai sounds too politically correct to me as of now. A new job, many new people, and the famous traffic of this city are a few things that I deal with daily.

My journeys to Lokhandwala are usually by buses. The local trains have not yet been fully explored. But like what most people had warned me of, every morning a crowd of people sweep me in into the red buses. Sitting, on a window seat is a treat while standing amongst many men with smelly armpits, a forced custom. “Welcome to Bombay and stop being a snob!” they all say. But as the title of this post suggests, I will talk about those times when I’ve managed, by sheer luck or tact, to get a window seat.

Everyday my journey starts from the satisfactory green of Juhu, through the fish smelling streets of char bangla (4 bungalows), through the congested, dusty, unidentifiable roads where many construction workers with yellow helmets are already halfway through their day to finally the posh markets of Lokhandwala. I hope for a good day and tell myself to be more positive and enterprising an employee. By evening, I check the number of days that I’ve been in this office and city…more than three weeks. Wow! How did I manage it?

The comforting window seat thankfully finds its way to me and I slop into it immediately. A strangely familiar piece of jazz music plays on the speakers. It sounds very out of place and hence very nice. Perhaps it is by Taufiq Qureshi. I see Prachi Mokashi of the future, romanticizing these bus journeys of her early months in Bombay. Time gets intertwined with my many aspirations and hopes. It gets over all too quickly as the music stops. A silly ad plays on the two, small LCD screens; sometimes it gets switched to surveillance camera shots of the passengers sitting in the bus. I try to see if I’m being shot too.

Tired of feeling watched, I decide to become the spectator. Life moves outside the bus as we wait for the green traffic signal. A mad man talks and laughs to himself as pedestrians walk by. Our eyes meet but I break the connection soon enough. A little intimidated I watch a father entertain his child by tearing out long strips of a movie poster. The poor actor on the poster gradually gets defaced. The child has a good laugh. Many people wait for their dinner at a Bhakar-Zunaka Kendra. The smell of food mixes with the dusty air, I sigh.

I come back to my apartment. It has pista green walls and smells of incense sticks. My three other flat mates, most of whom who are a little older than me soon come back home. Each has had her own day of events and journeys. A little cooking and chatting brings in some good cheer. We soon retire for the night only to wake up the next day and hope for our window seats.

snoozing

2009-09-17T07:58:00.000-07:00

2009-09-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

Free time
What all can I do with free time
Watch a film.
Sing.
Eat and talk at length.
Listen.
Float in and out of consciousness,
Stare
At traffic, people, noise,
At feathers complete their fall.
Hold on to things,
Before they go by.

2009-09-15T03:34:00.000-07:00

missing my old self

2009-08-12T02:18:00.000-07:00

let there be rain!

2009-06-21T06:22:00.000-07:00

do those clouds
bring some good news?
or is it dusk
that mellows this summer day.

dusty, old trees flirt
with the fresh, lilting breeze.
hope and temperatures
rise and drop.

let there be rain!

for ~
noisy train compartments and nervous parents
old, dusty trees and concerned teachers
empty playgrounds and restless students
melting tar roads and bored lovers.

-habits-

2009-06-15T22:45:00.000-07:00

with a green toothbrush and some minty foam
i brush meditatively.
the dark, open sky of a cloudy night stares back
floating glow worms help divide land from sky
i watch from the small balcony as sleep overcomes me.
drag myself out of the orchestra - just like yesterday.

tomorrow will be a different symphony though
another city, another balcony.

these hours of lazy restlessness

2009-06-07T23:42:00.000-07:00

there is so much happening,
yet so little.
everything is worth telling you about,
yet not.
these hours of lazy restlessness .

STILL / MOVING

2009-05-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

photographs by Mahanjyoti Dutta

2009-05-11T04:46:00.000-07:00

mixed feelings of mine

2009-05-04T21:58:00.000-07:00

mixed feelings of mine
like mixed pickles

Bitter lemon rind slices hidden
under coats of nimak, mirch-masala

Kachcha aam ka ek piece
desperately being searched for
by long, Amitabh Bachchan spoons

A green chili stuffed with mustard
Trying hard to be remember it's previous strengths.
A pink onion petal gracefully sweet,
Enjoying the swim; floating inside the bottled pool.

mixed feelings of mine
like mixed pickles.

silent witnesses

2009-04-06T02:38:00.000-07:00

I used to wait
Under a tree,
For a bus
To take me home
Through those busy Guwahati streets.

The last three hours,
Before I would be free
From those overrated examinations,
Got over.
Almost quickly.

I celebrated
With a few friends
Before walking
To the tree,
Feeling quite spent.

I stood under its generous shade.
The past, present, future whisked by
All at one go, in my mind.
The tree heard me out,
"Will miss you...", I sighed.

~

I saw a photograph
On the news today.
The tree- the prime witness
To the bomb blast, it blared.
Many had been waiting, like me that day.

Dipping#02

2009-04-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

Dipping #01

2009-04-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

Since the past two weeks, I've been on a hunt. It's not been completely fruitful nor pathetic. The motive is to find great tales of the Brahmaputra river from greater storytellers, be it a fisherman, a farmer, a writer, an old rescue worker, a school teacher, a tourism sector businessman or the river itself.

So far, I feel like I am floating through many lives, not paying enough attention to the details of each individual, inspite of being quite curious and concerned. So...any ideas/ comments/ suggestions/ resources, please please please let me know. It's been a while since this blog and I received some constructive feedback. thanks.

And so I watched the news

2009-03-28T09:59:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been missing the 90s.
My years of growing up; yours too?
I rarely watched the news then.
There was just me, mitbit, amma, baba and sometimes you.

When I come home these days,
I watch a lot of news.
It's addictive and I can't help but sway,
From anger to fear to dismay.

Slow-paced memories of a childhood
When one knew almost nothing,
But was eager to learn
- To become an adult, intelligent and good.

And so I watched the news.
Did you?

Kamlabai by Reena Mohan, 1991

2009-03-13T03:05:00.000-07:00

I finally saw Reena Mohan's Kamlabai. I had heard a lot about the film and had many expectations which certainly weren't let down. Kamlabai Gokhale- the first woman to be on the Indian silver screen, proves to be the best part of the film, although one also owes credit to those who were behind the camera - Reena Mohan (director), Ranjan Palit (cinematographer), the translator and many more who worked for the film. A quiet, observing film, Kamlabai had that aura which could easily soak you in and make you want to listen and watch the 92 year old lady play her many roles of an actress, a daughter, a student, a blunt rebel and a lonesome old woman.

But I didn't quite like the way the film ended. Or did I not understand that scene?
-
Kamlabai asks the crew what their 'programme' for the evening is? Reena Mohan who has spoken to her in Hindi throughout the shoot of the film suddenly asks her in Marathi what she means by 'programme'. Kamlabai gets angry and starts to accuse and swear at Reena for pretending to not know the language. Reena Mohan excalims- "The camera is on, you know and so's the sound.". Kamlabai looks at the camera, "On? you mean running...? She continues to look stare back and whispers, "On."

Why was this scene even included? By distancing itself from Kamlabai, the film and the filmmakers seemed to want the upperhand; almost weakening the impactful presence of their subject in front of them. I felt sorry for Kamlabai although I don't think she would have liked that.

Ritwik Ghatak's rivers

2009-03-06T09:28:00.000-08:00

I recently watched two beautiful films by Ritwik Ghatak, Subarnarekha and Titas Ekti Nadir Naam. Amongst other things, both films have one important common subject- a river.

Since my thoughts are soon going to be sailing over the brick-red waters; coiling around the strong currents of the Brahmaputra, I was particularly interested in observing how Ghatak had tried to capture the rivers- Subarnarekha and Titas.

In Subarnarekha, long stretches of the dry river bed stare at you. There is almost no water in the isolated new home that little Sita (note the name) has come to. While the river bed, a forgotten runway and empty,bombed buildings become her playground as a child, they almost shift their identity as Sita grows into a beautiful young lady. One earnestly waits for the promised blue hills, flowers, birds, butterflies and the golden ray of the Subarnarekha to wend their way next to Sita's aspired home.

In the paddy fields today-sun light and shadows play hide-seek,
Who has set them floating clusters of white clouds in the blue sky,
Today the bee forgets to suck nectar and flies about reveling in the sunshine
And why on the sand banks the cranes flock together?
- Sita's song,
Subarnarekha, 1965, Ritwik Ghatak

conduct to code

2009-02-15T10:16:00.000-08:00

Fragments of moods- lift, drop
Many perspectives cropped.

a smirk, a giggle
a burst of anger;
out they wriggle.

Like songs on shuffle mode.

Fisherman~

2009-01-11T10:43:00.000-08:00

Difficult lives
along a majestic river.
That of a fisherman-
a quiet murmur.

2009-01-08T08:57:00.000-08:00

one early morning

Water Stories 01~

2009-01-02T03:10:00.000-08:00

My post board-examination holidays were spent at home, in a town that I was new to and did not like much.

We lived on the I.I.T Guwahati campus, which is on the other, less ‘developed’ side of the mighty Brahmaputra. I did not have any friends on the campus; none of the other kids were as old as me.

In my last few years in school, I had started drawing with a certain motive. Monet was my favourite painter, perhaps also because we had a framed copy of ‘Water Lilies’ at home. On one day of those long vacations, I decided to walk to the closest lake and draw the ripples of water with colour pencils. It must have been around 11 o’clock in the morning. I started drawing with much gusto, also enjoying my own image of drawing by a lake. Midway I realized that I wasn’t really observing the water too much; I was drawing out of my own habits.

So I started watching little free-spirited ripples become bigger waves, sparkling, changing colours from blue to grey, frothing, dying for a few seconds to be reborn once again. They sounded beautiful against the silence of that afternoon. A few palms lent a slightly higher pitched background tone and gusts of cool breeze encouraged the opus.

I had stopped drawing. There was no need...
A little inundated and lightheaded, I walked back home.

2008-12-30T21:29:00.000-08:00

2008-12-30T06:37:00.000-08:00

winter's twilight

2008-12-26T02:58:00.000-08:00

I haven't ever been so keen on watching all the films screened at a film festival, than what I was at Twilight. All the films weren't great, nor were they satisfactory...but some of them were, if I may use the word- beautiful!

The festival had a discussion/ debate segment that I really enjoyed called Aestheshorts. Every afternoon a panel of three people would discuss various stuff about short filmmaking. The discussion was thrown open to the audience as well.

This small scale platform for students, amateur filmmakers, teachers, distributors, celebrity filmmakers, singers, writers, film buffs provided an enriching route to slip out of my tiny, safe cluster of friends, apprehensions and a certain superiority/ inferiority.

TRASH - that i usually delete before i post the main stuff

2008-12-26T02:37:00.001-08:00

Quite a few recent NID student films got selected for this year's
Twilight Film Festival held in New Delhi. Two of my films were also
selected :)......

...:]...:0...CUT! CUT!..........news bulletins!

South Delhi was where I again went to this year, for another film festival. Although this time, two films that I had made, were also a part of the Festival brochure. Sarah's, Aastha's, Ujjwal's films....
Aahhhhh!...........we almost froze to death!

CUT IT!

Twinkle, twinkle
Little star,
How I wonder
where you are?...

cough, cough!

सराय

2008-11-29T23:58:00.000-08:00

Saraai literally means, ‘rest-house’, a temporary home for travelers. The film itself is about such travelers. Through their experiences, the film attempts to understand their present, newly acquired identities and the very idea of home and belonging.

Made as part of my documentary project at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad.

sorry

2008-11-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

125 killed, 327 injured in Mumbai attacks.
Terror strikes Assam, 62 killed.
17 killed in Imphal blast.
20 killed as 5 bomb explosions rock Delhi.
17 blasts rock Ahmedabad.
60 killed, 150 injured as terror strikes Pink City.

We had a screening of 10 films made by my batch of 7 today. A few were short fiction films and a few short documentaries. We were all excited about it since the beginning of the week- for reasons more than one.
The Mumbai attacks last night, while I slept under my blanket, did not disturb me. They only flooded my conscience an hour before our screening at 6:15 p.m., when I finally read about them properly. Through the course of the day, many people had been talking about it and I kept responding to what they had to say, almost as if I knew about it.
I'm ashamed to admit this...
But it seemed almost like a resurgence and repetition of the same kind of despair, fear, apprehension that one had felt a few months back; a few years back.
Perhaps we should have cancelled the film screening...it was wrong on our part to be insensitive.
Or perhaps it was a right thing to do. Showcase stories of a bunch of people- 'common' people, 'rich' people, 'famous' people, 'old' people, 'young' people, children.
I don't know the answer to these doubts. I hope I don't sound like I'm intellectualising our actions for some sort of a reassurance...
I am very sorry.

2008-11-26T23:57:00.000-08:00

2008-10-31T11:19:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that music can be enjoyed at low decibel levels,

while

a fan squeaks above my head,

dogs bark in perfect rhythm,

a river is pumped out by greedy machines,

my stomach Groans for food,

a few friends laugh in the adjoining room.

2008-10-25T02:04:00.000-07:00

Wait!
Wait for a clean slate!
Bait!
Bait good fate!

My all-time roomie :)

2008-10-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

~said moka, to herself

2008-10-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

A recurring, pestering question; a few empty days around the corner; some enthusiasm; some nostalgia and a whole lot of homesickness~

"What next?"
Said moka.

"Damn, the same question.
Such a pest!"

"How vague is vague?"
Said moka.

"Like...like a mirage- dancing in mid-air;
Fragile peace of mind- you plague!"

"That must be beautiful.
Such uncertainty and little care."

~Said moka, to herself

randomly stumbled upon

2008-10-09T06:02:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon this interesting search engine of sorts called - StumbleUpon. www.stumbleupon.com
So this is going to be my first post about something...technical. Ha!

This new discovery of mine- It's nice for people who get a little intimidated by the misty, ever-so-vast expanse of the Internet. Quite occasionally, I have this deep urge to know more about something, anything. Or simply come across something that's exciting or dismal or wicked or nostalgic or...But I eventually just stare at my computer screen.

I do have options other than the computer. But still...

Well, I hope I continue to enjoy it and it does not wear off like most other things.

untitled #01

2008-09-21T07:31:00.000-07:00

Head orders,
Leave; quit!
Heart warns,
You will miss it!

When did I become Them
-Scrambling for attention
With reasons insufficient,
Unfit.

S H O O T

2008-09-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

Sarah and I have been waking up quite early these past few days. My cellphone alarm rings by five o'clock in the morning, literally shaking me out of my bed. I knock on Sarah's door, wondering if she finds the sound irritating in her sleep. I do. She doesn't. :)
We meet at the middle gate, pick up the bare necessities of a hopefully good shoot- our camera, headphones and tripod, jump onto an auto rickshaw and travel the city.

Dawn, soft breeze, deep slumber
Join us as we shoot.
Whilst treading softly, talking in murmurs,
Privacy we loot.

My First Short Fiction Film

2008-09-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

Erstwhile

2008-08-30T00:07:00.000-07:00

Today I found an old audio cassette of Kabir bhajans, sung by Pandit Kumar Gandharva, in the library. Amma used to listen to this particular cassette quite often when we lived here at NID. Summer evenings, after a sweaty game of lock-and-key in the lawns and a quick shower of water and talcum powder, I would sometimes water the plants in the verandah with Mitbit. The bhajans would be playing in the background. Initially I found Gandharva's ways of singing funny but later, as the music grew over me, I enjoyed everything about those evenings.

A thin, dark green hose pipe would curl its way to the verandah from the sink. Mitbit and I used to struggle quite bit with the hose pipe and the tap. If the pipe came off, there would be water splashed around everywhere. Amma would come running from the kitchen, Baba would run from the hall, Mitbit would jump around ranting gibberish to add to the wet, noisy havoc!

Calm would be restored. Baba would fasten the hose pipe to the tap with some bits of rope he would magically manufacture, Amma would order Mitbit to shut-up, ask me to reduce the volume of the tape recorder, wipe the water and rush back to the kitchen. She would eventually increase the volume-in between a simmer and a 'tadka'.

Mitbit and I would get back to the plants. The plants would look quite happy. The verandah would smell refreshingly beautiful. Baba would burst with enthusiasm and sing aloud with Gandharva- a little off-tune.

I am digitizing the cassette right now. I am a student at NID. Amma, Baba and Mitbit live in Guwahati these days.

27th August, 2008
12:58 p.m.
erstwhile VTR

subject + predicate

2008-08-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I went back to my room fairly early.
Switched on the yellow bulb, played some Dylan,
Changed into warm pyjamas -
With black stripes running vertically.

I felt exhausted and weird;
Dylan sang Rainy Day Woman No. 12 and 35.
As I stared at my colourful watch,
10 o'clock neared.

I had spent a long day
With Rumanaben and her three sisters
I was anxious to record everything
Before memory got swept away.

As I was about to start -
Recalling and arranging,
A first year student came,
With all her pencils, paper and art.

"Can I draw your eyes", she asked
I was taken by surprise;
Could only grunt a "Yes",
All amusement masked.

It felt soothing to be looked at,
And be the subject for sometime
Everything made sense under her quiet gaze ,
As she drew and I sat and sat and sat.

~(just an attempt to write a poem)

I crave for some home food!

2008-08-15T00:35:00.000-07:00

My documentary film is a collection of stories of various people who’ve experienced or are still experiencing the pain; relief; joy; insecurity; safety of shifting home.

I will be interviewing a few chosen people from the various ‘foreign’ communities residing in Ahmedabad. Their stories will be woven into the film. Sometimes I might chose to juxtapose one story with the other because they have a common thread running through them, or because they have dissimilar views. Although my interactions so far have only proved that most recollections of home and belonging are usually because of that person’s inability to go back home. The inabilities are due to financial crunches, political restrictions, religious insecurities etc. But then all the people I’m involving in the film have settled down in Ahmedabad, for sometime atleast.

The communities I’ll be involving in this film are the Sindhis, the Siddis and the Army families.

I’ll be also interviewing a Gujarati NRI. A ‘foreigner’ in some other land.

I’m thinking of having Food as the metaphor. Food, a daily necessity, is something most people think of at unusual, dire, happiest points of their lives. Food is also a way through which people from various cultures assert their Sindhiness or Siddiness, or Gujaratiness. Bad food evokes memories of good food, and often times ‘home food’. For example the old Sindhi lady I spoke to recalled how they were given a rationed amount of makai (corn) in the refugee camps after the Partition of 1947. Makai used to be eaten by the poor in Sindh and hence she felt greatly humiliated to feed the now impoverished family with makai ki roti. It wasn’t the delicacy that we non-Sindhis see it as till today.

Rumaniben described a sweet that they Siddis make during Babagoar ka Urs- a festival that they celebrate. But otherwise they eat and cook more or less like the Gujaratis.

Most ‘outsiders’ from Gujarat have learnt to make food of the state, usually to gain acceptance from their neighbours. Food exchanged between neighbours usually makes people feel friendlier towards each other and hence it also becomes a great way of getting to know new people and to feel ‘at home’. I could look into this through the Army angle. How do the wives of Army personnel mix and make new friends with other women within the Cantonment? How do women, by sharing recipes, assert their cultural identities in a cosmopolitan society? Also, how do they pick up other recipes from other parts of the country because of their husbands’ many postings? Thereby being able to recall the many homes they’ve lived in, simply through a whiff of perhaps a Sambar being made in their neighbour’s house.

How do we develop a taste for food that we never used to eat while we lived at ‘home’? Does the Gujarati NRi crave for aloo shaak, poori or shrikhand while he places his order at Macdonald’s (or whichever place he eats often in the U.S. or the U.K.)? Does he crave for a Chicken Macgrill by the third week of his coming back to Ahmedabad. Does his family make fun of him? Does he long to go back to the U.S./ U.K. because of such funny wants. Is homesickness connected to food?

Through food, I should touch upon this question of identity, home and belonging. Where do we belong? What is home? Where is our home? Is it just in our head and hearts? Is it tangible? Or is it just a figment of our minds?

...quoting...floating...

2008-08-04T10:20:00.001-07:00

'Suppose yourself in a large cinema, sitting at first in the back row, and gradually moving up, ...until your nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars' faces dissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; ...it becomes clear that the illusion itself is reality.'

-Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children

'...it's my present that is foreign, and that the past is home albeit a lost home in a lost city in the mists of lost time.'

-Salman Rushdie, Imaginary Homelands

~ I ~ for inverted snobbery

2008-08-04T06:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I sat cooped up within the campus. I had too much time on my hands, and I simply whiled it away in some kind of self-pity. I was feeling quite lonesome, and very ugly.

I'm still under it's burden; although since the past two days I've been venturing out to the city, meeting new people, forgetting about myself for a little while. Quite queerly, I'm finding strangers better company than those at 'home'.

I don't know what I exactly want...perhaps a certain kind of attention, some temporary hauteur, a few compliments from people who honestly mean them.

...And I believed that I did not understand people who displayed such wants, all the time. (my sole defense!)

I seem to be asking for trouble in this post. Please do not comment, although I'll always be interested in knowing what you had to say.

I just had to get it out of my system and put myself on display...

Ruffled

2008-07-29T23:19:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, Ahmedabad had sixteen bomb blasts. The bombs were planted in the more crowded, poorer parts of the city. Fifty people died and many were injured. The executioners chose more violence to revenge the 2002 Gujarat riots.

By nightfall, NID seemed to be the safest den in the city. Students living in the city had come into the campus; nobody was allowed to leave the premises. The basketball court was suddenly quite populated, and everybody seemed to be having a picnic. Garba was organized and some enthusiasts danced to its beats. Nobody objected; there were quite a few who cringed.

What have we learnt so far? What have we unlearned?

I was a little nervous, they were a little surprised.

2008-07-25T23:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening I walked to the mosque near Mahalaxmi Char-rasta. I wanted to meet a group of men of whom I had only heard about. I hesitantly approached the only house in the barren field in front of the mosque. A young woman (much to my relief)was sitting on a khatla and a few people sat around her, chatting amongst themselves. A policeman seemed to be bickering with someone in a far corner.
My introduction was in a funny mixture of Gujarati and Hindi. The woman was quite pleasant. She called out to a few of the men cooking in the field-near the main road. I was asked to sit on a chair and talk to them-much to my embarrassment. But I guess, it was important for her, that I sit on that particular chair.
It was quite a task to make conversation. I didn't know where to begin. Thank god for my broken Gujarati- some of them eventually got a little interested in talking to me, and not just stare amusedly.
These young men, in their early twenties come from Godhra. They are basically Gujarati farmers, who are sent of by their families to earn in the city. They get hired by rich housing societies, contractors to cut trees...I wonder if they do any other work. Everyday, these people wait to get employed. They sit in Paldi or the Ambavadi circle. After the day's work (if they're lucky), they come back to the field near the mosque, cook, eat and sleep out in the open.
Dinesh bhai (the second photograph below) described his home in Godhra. It is bigger than the young woman's house-he said. But we can't earn so much there, we have to come to Ahmedabad. Dineshbhai goes home ever fortnight. He learnt how to cook before he came to work in Ahmedabad. He misses not having to cook.

2008-07-25T22:23:00.000-07:00

time flies

2008-07-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

I'm not philosophizing

2008-07-25T09:44:00.000-07:00

Was today? Today was...

2008-07-23T10:55:00.000-07:00

~ from my brown paper book

Clay

2008-07-21T07:10:00.000-07:00

I am working on another film this semester. Yes, I know- I'm still lucky. Soon, I'll be working on someone else's films. But why worry now...

It's a documentary film about 'Home'...

Read on if you want to...some scrambled ideas~

Home

8th July, 2008
As children I remember playing ‘Gharghatta’ under our circular dining table in the kitchen. My friends or my brother would be the other inmate and we would pretend to cook, go out for work, come back ‘home’, sleep, study, bathe under the dining table. That circle of space under the dark wood was our home and we managed to fit in pretty well.
I have been musing on the days that I’ll be soon be spending outside NID, once I leave the campus, the institute, for the second time. I might never come back again or I might eventually come back. But now, for a couple of years, home will be some other town, some other building, some other room, some other neighbour…I will hopefully get used it, and hopefully still miss NID…
Leaving it for the second time will be different, since living in it the second time has been so.
Homes are perhaps every person’s refuge- be it C-hostel room no.-317 or the roadsides of Vastrapur where an old man of the Rabari community lives.
People who’ve been dislocated from their homes must probably perceive it in a different light. For example, the nomadic tribes one sees near Law Garden or outside Fun Republic. What kind of homes have they come from, how do they live in the big city.
A juxtaposition of a home I’ll soon be leaving for the second time, with the lives of people stuck in different stages of ‘being home’.

9th July,2008
i hope to find stories of people, who've probably been away from home for sometime, who're eager to get back home, who have a mobile home, who have strange 'homes'-perhaps on a railway platform or bridge...who've been thrown out of their home, who are buying/selling homes, who're shifting homes-perhaps from the old city Pols to Satellite or even vice versa...the idea of home away from home...

10th July, 2008
How will the film look visually? What kind of stories do I wish to look into? What are the stories I want to tell about myself and how?

Some of the visuals and sounds I can think of:-
• Little itinerant places as homes-railway compartments, railway platforms, bullock carts, ferries that people make home-like; the bottle of water, the blown up, khaki coloured pillows, bed-sheets to cover.
• Songs about home
• Ways of giving addresses to ones home, through visual maps or through word of mouth.
• Someone shifting homes within the city of Ahmedabad- ways of packing and clearing up lived-in spaces, final goodbyes, journey away from home-to a new home, their excitement and sorrow, setting up a new home, initial discomforts/comforts because of decrease/increase in space.
• Someone who lives a nomadic existence, for example Gadoliya Lohars from Rajasthan who live on their bullock carts in Ahmedabad. The idea of not ‘settling down’and it’s relation to occupations and financial stability. For example-a migrated Rabari community, which works in Pethapur weaving Benarasi saris for Asopalav, although they are actually Kimkhap weavers-which no longer sells.
• Is there any sort of a ‘no man’s land’ in Ahmedabad? Who lives there? Questioning identity.
• Foreigners who’ve settled in Ahmedabad for generations –Apsi tribe from Africa-their songs, their feelings about home away from home
• My notions of home away from home. Sounds, old pictures, narration, songs…be minimalistic.
• Through the stories I will collect, I would like to conclude on a question-How do we share homes with others- be it animate or inanimate…our body and mind being homes to many infact.

There is a line from Ramdas (the Marathi saint who is said to have influenced Shivaji) that my mother told me about. His work is called "Dasbodh".
The line goes:
"undir mhantat majhe ghar, pali mhantat majhe ghar…"
“the mice say it’s my home, the lizards say it’s my home…”

20th July, 2008
Today I was sitting in the insti lawns, on the slope near the amphitheatre. Suddenly the grounds lit and a rocket burst with its entire splendor. The trees that surround the grounds burst with black birds cawing, flying in frenzy, filling up the purple sky. They soon returned back to their many homes- only to get agitated once again, when the second rocket burst. This happened several times.
This could be an interesting metaphor-although I might have to construct it.
But so what, metaphors are to be underlined…hmm??

HOW DO I DOCUMENT MEMORIES?

air-conditioned getaways

2008-07-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

I was in New Delhi last week for the Osian Film Festival and Talent Campus. The event was quite a pompous affair, and funnily the films were probably the only beings that allowed me to be comfortable with myself.

I think I've never been so relieved to sit in an auditorium and watch a film.

homes

2008-07-06T10:38:00.000-07:00

My home...a sketch I made while I was still in school-5 years ago...my ways of seeing my home have changed over these years and i might draw it differently now.

But I still love it and miss it ever now and then.

I'll soon be leaving another home- for the second time...

Solemn ramblings

2008-06-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

I've been watching quite a few heavy documentaries lately...Night and Fog by Alain Resnais, War and Peace, and Father,Son and the Holy War by Anand Patwardhan... My mind seems to be constantly running with visuals from these films and everyday, by nightfall, I seem to be losing all my ways and excuses of comprehending life and the millions of people who comprise it...including myself.

This notion of homogeneity that one relies on- does not exist.
India itself is a country of many worlds. What will the world be like...?

Perhaps there will never be equality- of any kind...

Percy's Song by Bob Dylan

2008-06-20T05:28:00.000-07:00

Bad news, bad news,
Came to me where I sleep,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin' one of your friends
Is in trouble deep,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Tell me the trouble,
Tell once to my ear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Joliet prison
And ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Oh what's the charge
Of how this came to be,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Manslaughter
In the highest of degree,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

I sat down and wrote
The best words I could write,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Explaining to the judge
I'd be there on Wednesday night,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Without a reply,
I left by the moon,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And was in his chambers
By the next afternoon,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Could ya tell me the facts?
I said without fear,
Turn, turn, turn again.
That a friend of mine
Would get ninety-nine years,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

A crash on the highway
Flew the car to a field,
Turn, turn, turn again.
There was four persons killed
And he was at the wheel,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

But I knew him as good
As I'm knowin' myself,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And he wouldn't harm a life
That belonged to someone else,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

The judge spoke
Out of the side of his mouth,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin', "The witness who saw,
He left little doubt,"
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

That may be true,
He's got a sentence to serve,
Turn, turn, turn again.
But ninety-nine years,
He just don't deserve,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Too late, too late,
For his case it is sealed,
Turn, turn, turn again.
His sentence is passed
And it cannot be repealed,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

But he ain't no criminal
And his crime it is none,
Turn, turn, turn again.
What happened to him
Could happen to anyone,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

And at that the judge jerked forward
And his face it did freeze,
Turn, turn, turn again.
Sayin', "Could you kindly leave
My office now, please,"
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

Well his eyes looked funny
And I stood up so slow,
Turn, turn, turn again.
With no other choice
Except for to go,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

I walked down the hallway
And I heard his door slam,
Turn, turn, turn again.
I walked down the courthouse stairs
And I did not understand,
Turn, turn to the rain
And the wind.

And I played my guitar
Through the night to the day,
Turn, turn, turn again.
And the only tune
My guitar could play
Was, "Oh the Cruel Rain
And the Wind."

I enjoy listening to Bob Dylan. These are the words of a song called 'Percy's song' from the album 'Biograph'. The story narrated is quite similar to some of the news that's been making the rounds on our Indian news channels...although News channels can probably never capture the various nuances of grief. Their attempts to make any incident sensational often make them seem more like entertainment hubs. But then, news is necessary and documenting something will not always be like a Dylan song...
Guess it's empathy I am talking about here...empathetic intentions-subjective though they will always be.

Many questions

2008-06-18T09:09:00.000-07:00

I am making a documentary film this semester-my final year at the NID.

The above statement is completely true. I quoted myself and I must admit it sounds very matter of fact and gets only slightly emotional towards the end. I am being the 'objective critic', or the 'ardent observer who speaks from her heart'-

Err... am I?

I have been feeling slightly confused about documentary as a medium of filmmaking. My perception of the ethics of using a camera and capturing something, someone seems to be clashing with the meaning of documenting.

The argument

Will anything/anybody I document be the same in the absence of the camera...retain his/her most honest, usual way of being. How can I document anything for what it has been but no longer is?

Or does this medium of storytelling involve making illusions seem true.

Or is life just a mere illusion; the truest, most honest illusion?

Photography...

2008-06-11T22:31:00.000-07:00

I have often felt slightly selfish when I am shooting candid. My intentions are usually innocent, and mostly concentrate on 'the beauty' of what I see in front of me...

But I will always be the outsider for the subject I intend to take a picture of...the stranger who loves to suddenly appear into the someone's life, click his/her picture and disappear into the crowd.

I think photography sometimes forces one to make certain undue assumptions while capturing seemingly permanent images of someone else's life...

My previous post has some photographs I took at the Ahmedabad Railway Station. I was quite happy with the results, and probably still am...

Living on a railway station~

2008-06-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

Happy realization...?

2008-06-10T23:46:00.000-07:00

I interned with an ad production house this summer...Nirvana Films.

My work was mostly related to the pre-production of two ads- Halonix CFL Luminaires and Incredible India. Fortunately I also managed to be there for the shoot of the first one.

The shoot was probably some kind of a saving grace, for I must admit that I got a little bored and restless after the hazar casting auditions and location referencing that I was asked to do initially.

I chose to intern with the ad world because of my certain biases against it...I tend to be judgemental. Well, it is not all that bad, except for the hierarchy between the client and the ad agency and the production house... EGO clash!

HAPPY REALIZATION~

It is difficult to be a good director when the script is not yours...

Or an excited scriptwriter when you will never actually make the film.

{..baapre baap!.}

Being untitled..

2008-04-26T05:35:00.000-07:00

My decision to start this diary of sorts has been a sudden one. I always considered blogging quite like advertising, I still cling on to some of my apprehensions...Guess, I've given in to some inner urge to showcase, for I hope someone will read this.

Being 'Untitled' can be unnerving but exciting. I hope to give my blog a more sufficiently appropriate name someday, although I desire it to be as protean as it can be...