Sunday, April 27, 2008

Reverie in Traffic: An Attempt at Hitotoki

A shot at Hitotoki by your favorite Diva.

The buses stand at angles,often crossing into adjacent lanes, much to the chagrin of cab drivers trying to slither into claustrophobic spaces in the endless lines of traffic.It has been nearly 45 minutes and all is still.I look out of the cab window.The bridge stands like a stoic witness to the silent pandemonium.There is a line of abandoned trucks parked along one side of the narrow lane.There are people thronging the dust laden tea shops,eagerly sipping on the smog-infested morning beverage.

I stare into one of the tinted windows of the adjacent van.I sense that the face staring back at me is familiar.Of course,all faces in traffic appear familiar.The sea of expressionless visages painted with different shades of boredom is a very familiar sight in early mornings.

Across the street is a railway station. Faces fatigued with excitement throng the platform. Bags and suitcases are hurled from one end to another.There is a fine line separating the sentiments of those starting the unpredictable journey of drudgery,courtesy the Indian Railways,and those stuck in traffic, halfway in their quest for drudgery.The former and latter occasionally cast wayward glances at each other,part piteous and part envious.

I cast my attention to the neighboring window again. The face appears clearer and the expression keener. Do I know her? I wonder to myself. Familiarity mingled with a tinge of anonymity is a bizzare privilege. There are the momentary flashes a polite smile and the insolent 'Indian' gaze. All of it seems acceptable,given the impenetrable wall of silence between strangers. The traffic finally moves,crawling an inch at a time only to come to a halt again, with an acquired resignation.There is a different cab,a different window and yet another face. The reverie is still the same.

Location: Near the K.R. Puram bridge.
Time: 7:50 am.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

One Line Movie Reviews

Here's to keeping it short and hopefully sweet.

Crash - A gritty and enduring tribute to short sightedness and prejudice.

Stigmata - A perfect example of a film that is conceptually promising and a failure in execution.

To Be or Not To Be- Mel Brooks meets(and even becomes) the Fuhrer, what could be more hilarious?

Your average Bollywood flick - Boy meets girl,falls in love,beats up bad guys and marries girl; almost like the birdie-dance routine!

Your average Hollywood cop-flick - Cop with integrity oversteps jurisdiction,gets suspended, solves a crucial case and is decorated; more like the hokie-pokie routine.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Recuperating..

The Diva was ill(even we Divas fall ill sometimes). I was in the exalted company of Franz Kafka, the eternal dreamer and existentialist. According to a survey once conducted in the United Kingdom;television viewers find themselves empathizing with on screen characters to the extent that they feel they even suffer from the same ailments. I stake claim to a similar affliction thanks to the intimidating and very abstruse Franz Kafka.Sometimes metaphysics causes one to swing between a nauseating sense of numbness to an invigorating sense of hyperactivity. The fact that I was feverish didn't contribute to the fleeting sense of wellbeing either. I am now recuperating. I'm not quite sure if I should be thankful for that.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Alive and Kicking in Kafkaland

The trouble with Franz Kafka's work is that it is meant to be felt and not read.I find myself stuck in transience between the hazy surrealism of Kafkaland and the glaring self portrait of reality.I read a piece titled 'Meditation'; a collection of short stories and reverie from the ever-fleeting mind that conjured them. I wander helplessly from page to page; in search of meaning,logic or anything tangible. I am discontent and turn to the piece titled 'The Metamorphosis'. Since I am no stranger to 'The Metamorphosis', I devour it gleefully with a false and misleading sense of pride. I arm myself with the comforting sense of familiarity,little realizing that Kafka's words take new meaning every time they are read.Kafkaland is the only place in the space of imagination where a hopeless romantic, taking a walk in the clouds, can get consumed by his own romanticism.A life in Kafkaland is as superficial as its supposed depth. So here I stand, sensing that I am alive and kicking, till I am buried in the vanishing crust known as 'Kafkaland'.