New York has come to a partial standstill after Hurricane Sandy. With the kaput subway system, New Yorkers are feeling the brunt of the storm. While things were rather calm and unaffected Uptown, other parts suffered. I, at my apartment in Washington Heights, stayed warm and safe throughout. We had electricity, gas and my roommate screened movies every night in his room.
It is questionable when things will get back to normal. For now, we'll all walk a few blocks extra, until it's time to swipe that metro card again.
31 October 2012
26 September 2012
An ode to copywriting
Advertising writers who believe that they're selling a product will always only do that. Except advertising writers have a job, just a little bit greater than that. For those who wrote a commercial, a headline, a tag line to sell product X, just did not love product X enough. Because it is not about enforcing a way of life onto someone, it's about sharing. Sharing - yes, that thing from the yore that we all seem to have forgotten. It is that excitement of stumbling upon the wonderfulness of product X that you want to tell the world about. You want them to try it, to share your experience and validate the wonderfulness of product X. If you haven't raised product X to that level, you haven't done your job. If you haven't shared with the consumer your unique story about product X then you haven't done your job.
For everyone who believes that the job of an advertising writer is the same job as that of a salesman, they did not understand why the creative department was ever called so. It is not any kind of idealism preaching. I am not speaking about meditating to let your creative juices flow, so you can create a divine piece of art solely understandable by you and entirely for your personal satisfaction. It's about how well you tell your story, how well you share, how much you love product X, how much you care about the consumer and how well you express that to them. Because if you started with the agenda to sell it, then you asked them to buy it. Though they can tell when you're doing that. They don't need to be told. And they don't need to be told if product x is great or that it will give them a third eye. They won't care.
But would they care, if it was about you, who is very much like them, and told them what happened to you when you tried product X? If you made an honest appeal, if you just whispered into their ears, your little story, it would be enough and more than the shout of the salesman. So for everyone else who believed they got a sales job when they were hired as a copywriter, should just setup shop at the cash counter of the nearest departmental store. I know, many great men said, it's about selling a product. But I am sorry I don't completely agree and I know you probably don't understand me either. And that's why I will never be an advertising writer again.
For everyone who believes that the job of an advertising writer is the same job as that of a salesman, they did not understand why the creative department was ever called so. It is not any kind of idealism preaching. I am not speaking about meditating to let your creative juices flow, so you can create a divine piece of art solely understandable by you and entirely for your personal satisfaction. It's about how well you tell your story, how well you share, how much you love product X, how much you care about the consumer and how well you express that to them. Because if you started with the agenda to sell it, then you asked them to buy it. Though they can tell when you're doing that. They don't need to be told. And they don't need to be told if product x is great or that it will give them a third eye. They won't care.
But would they care, if it was about you, who is very much like them, and told them what happened to you when you tried product X? If you made an honest appeal, if you just whispered into their ears, your little story, it would be enough and more than the shout of the salesman. So for everyone else who believed they got a sales job when they were hired as a copywriter, should just setup shop at the cash counter of the nearest departmental store. I know, many great men said, it's about selling a product. But I am sorry I don't completely agree and I know you probably don't understand me either. And that's why I will never be an advertising writer again.
27 July 2012
Lovechild
Call me a mishap or a fatherless mongrel, we're all the same and equal sinners.
We've floated in our mother's womb alike and woken up to the same freaking world.
It is only a matter of perspective, not fate, I believe.
You and I are twins, on the other sides of the mirror.
Each of us remain, holding the same pinwheel in our hand. The one that's called life.
Then why do you believe you have the hues and me the monotones?
Notice when it circles with the wind, they are all white and all the same.
Take moment and think. While you maybe not, I am still a lovechild.
(Saved from another one of my blogs)
10 July 2012
What is life without drinks and drama and scandals and ideals and fights and dissatisfactions? Would we be entirely happy if there was no "sad". Would we like to love if there was no pain? Does it matter where we are going? Could we love two people at one time? Why is "wrong" so bad and "right" always good? Why doesn't all lands belong to every man? When will things change? Will they ever change?
19 May 2012
02 May 2012
Ladies, come out of the closet.
It is true that there are very few female filmmakers around the world. And if I was capable enough to conduct a research on "why" I would. But since I am not qualified enough for that I would just like to evaluate the possibilities of changing this.
Observations from film school:
1. Men don't discuss camera and technical aspects with women. At least not to the same extent as they do with male colleagues and neither with equal joy and exuberance.
2. Men would never trust a female DP.
3. There is ONE female DP in my entire class.
4. Men prioritize crewing for each others' projects.
5. Men collaborate with male colleagues and "help" female colleagues.
6. Men respect female writers, men can't imagine to acknowledge a superior female director.
7. There are fewer female faculty members in Directing.
8. Men don't discuss the filmmaking potential of their female colleagues. Women always discuss the inspiring male filmmakers.
8. Men understand film equipment better. Period.
It is not a question of whether this is conscious or unconscious, on the part of the male filmmakers but it is what it is. Things have been like that for ages. It's a thought process, it's a way of life. But at some point, this has to change. And as women we have to stand up to break out of this pattern.
We need to give each other more credit for our accomplishments and less jealous criticism. We have to encourage and support other female filmmakers. It does not matter what is the caliber of filmmaking, the point is that we need a stronger female voice and that can only be achieved if more and more women come out of the closet and feel determined to express themselves in front of the world as filmmakers. We need to engage in constructive criticism, and work towards improvement. We have to be conscious in not shying away from expressing ourselves. We have to make a conscious effort to be there for each other, as artists, as friends, as competitors and begin a solid camaraderie which for some strange reason seems to be missing.
Observations from film school:
1. Men don't discuss camera and technical aspects with women. At least not to the same extent as they do with male colleagues and neither with equal joy and exuberance.
2. Men would never trust a female DP.
3. There is ONE female DP in my entire class.
4. Men prioritize crewing for each others' projects.
5. Men collaborate with male colleagues and "help" female colleagues.
6. Men respect female writers, men can't imagine to acknowledge a superior female director.
7. There are fewer female faculty members in Directing.
8. Men don't discuss the filmmaking potential of their female colleagues. Women always discuss the inspiring male filmmakers.
8. Men understand film equipment better. Period.
It is not a question of whether this is conscious or unconscious, on the part of the male filmmakers but it is what it is. Things have been like that for ages. It's a thought process, it's a way of life. But at some point, this has to change. And as women we have to stand up to break out of this pattern.
We need to give each other more credit for our accomplishments and less jealous criticism. We have to encourage and support other female filmmakers. It does not matter what is the caliber of filmmaking, the point is that we need a stronger female voice and that can only be achieved if more and more women come out of the closet and feel determined to express themselves in front of the world as filmmakers. We need to engage in constructive criticism, and work towards improvement. We have to be conscious in not shying away from expressing ourselves. We have to make a conscious effort to be there for each other, as artists, as friends, as competitors and begin a solid camaraderie which for some strange reason seems to be missing.
11 April 2012
We will be great someday. Just not today.
There comes a time when we push past all the pettiness and try to achieve a state of calm. Except, when we are twenty something, being childish is the unconscious norm. We are struggling, we are fighting, living in a constant state of heady unrest. Loving it, hating it, dissatisfied with absolutely everything that is not "us". Selfish as hell, directionless and charging onto the goal of what we believe is "greatness". Nothing less would do for us. We're a bunch of thirsty predators. Love, hurt, games and politics, we are machiavelli's children. We're blind, we're stubborn. We are trying to be great, we're dying to be great. What sets us apart is the abysmal desire within.
And if we can wriggle out of this bubble we live in, maybe one day we will be great. For now, we shall just remain a bunch of twenty somethings.
And if we can wriggle out of this bubble we live in, maybe one day we will be great. For now, we shall just remain a bunch of twenty somethings.
24 March 2012
The giant gorge between ACT I and ACT II
The fear of the unknown is deeply inherent in all of us. ACT I was wonderful. It was clear, precise and a whole lot of fun. But suddenly everything has come to a standstill. ACT II is staring at me, in the face but there is a giant gorge between my last mark on ACT I and the other side/ACT II.
Chances are:
A. I may never get to the other side.
B. I may try but fall into the dark abyss.
C. Or make that one giant leap and get across.
The decision shall be made in exactly 10 mins (hopefully).
I set 2pm as my deadline.
Chances are:
A. I may never get to the other side.
B. I may try but fall into the dark abyss.
C. Or make that one giant leap and get across.
The decision shall be made in exactly 10 mins (hopefully).
I set 2pm as my deadline.
10 March 2012
How to stay happy, not drink and kill yourself?
Google can try but not make you happy. But at least Google tries.
Warm drinks versus cold ones. Cold, bitter ones. Bitter-sweet ones.
Alienating love from sex, sex from love...sense and sensibility from both.
Stuffing your face with food won't help. What would?
Yoga would not. A night out is temporary relief.
We're all on the edge, we may pop, we may drop.
Spill over and that's the end.
So the question still remains...how to stay happy, not drink and kill yourself.
Warm drinks versus cold ones. Cold, bitter ones. Bitter-sweet ones.
Alienating love from sex, sex from love...sense and sensibility from both.
Stuffing your face with food won't help. What would?
Yoga would not. A night out is temporary relief.
We're all on the edge, we may pop, we may drop.
Spill over and that's the end.
So the question still remains...how to stay happy, not drink and kill yourself.
03 March 2012
In the mood for love...
And I would watch In the Mood for Love over and over again, because of Chris Doyle.
17 February 2012
Happy Birthday
They had known each other for over six years. The first two was friendship. The next one was obsessive love and sex. The fourth was a disaster. The fifth and sixth...were different for both.
So it was her twenty sixth birthday. She was drinking cocktails and eating hash brownies. At the stroke of midnight she kissed a stranger, vowed her love for him and forgot when she kissed her girl friend.
So right after the party noises faded out. She signed in to facebook. Her page was flooded with birthday wishes. Boring. They are said the same thing.
And then somewhere hidden between the zillion other "Happy Birthdays" was one that read - "Happy Birthday Bitch. Hope you receive a much needed pounding tonight." She stared at it for a while. She thought it was the daze. But then her girl friend read it out aloud. She shut up immediate.
What did she do then? Well. She moved her fingers delicately over the awesome keys of her macbook. She typed - Thank you.
So it was her twenty sixth birthday. She was drinking cocktails and eating hash brownies. At the stroke of midnight she kissed a stranger, vowed her love for him and forgot when she kissed her girl friend.
So right after the party noises faded out. She signed in to facebook. Her page was flooded with birthday wishes. Boring. They are said the same thing.
And then somewhere hidden between the zillion other "Happy Birthdays" was one that read - "Happy Birthday Bitch. Hope you receive a much needed pounding tonight." She stared at it for a while. She thought it was the daze. But then her girl friend read it out aloud. She shut up immediate.
What did she do then? Well. She moved her fingers delicately over the awesome keys of her macbook. She typed - Thank you.
12 February 2012
Worthless pondering
As I drank my morning coffee, pretty much around noon, I remembered last night's dream. It was horrible, it was torture. Even just to think about what I saw. Last night in my dream I saw I had cancer.
I wonder where that came from? I wonder if I am falling into some sort of self loathing hell? Where no amount of laundry can clean the disease that is proliferating inside you.
God know why this happened but I remember loosing strands of my hair. I saw my father shocked, scared, saying that it's because of my smoking. But what's the point, I had smoked all I could and nothing could be done now. I had cancer.
And i guess it's true when they say that you'd never understand unless you got it. What do I say, a dream is as real as it gets.
So where are we right now? Is this the dream or is the dream the real world? What is our real state of existence?
Working on my Schizophrenia project, I wondered, if we were all Schizophrenics. If what we call normal is abnormal and "their" world more real than we potentially believe it to be.
Are we living a myth. The myth of life, created by God knows who? So if that is the case then why worry, why be so tensed when it's all going to be over and maybe then you and I will finally be in the real world.
The real world that is better or worse. For joys or for disappointment. Why are we killing ourselves every minute when we all know that one day we shall die.
What can we do to live? How to live? No one taught us this. No one knows about this. Why is death so scary when we don't even know what it is to live.
I don't know. I wonder. I wonder if this is going anywhere? Yet I want to see things through. Why? Why not just be satisfied with these incomplete fragments. It's like a puzzle that no one can assemble. So why try?
Will there ever be any answers. Will there ever be a point when we will have what we want? Who can tell? Who knows? I guess no one.
I wonder where that came from? I wonder if I am falling into some sort of self loathing hell? Where no amount of laundry can clean the disease that is proliferating inside you.
God know why this happened but I remember loosing strands of my hair. I saw my father shocked, scared, saying that it's because of my smoking. But what's the point, I had smoked all I could and nothing could be done now. I had cancer.
And i guess it's true when they say that you'd never understand unless you got it. What do I say, a dream is as real as it gets.
So where are we right now? Is this the dream or is the dream the real world? What is our real state of existence?
Working on my Schizophrenia project, I wondered, if we were all Schizophrenics. If what we call normal is abnormal and "their" world more real than we potentially believe it to be.
Are we living a myth. The myth of life, created by God knows who? So if that is the case then why worry, why be so tensed when it's all going to be over and maybe then you and I will finally be in the real world.
The real world that is better or worse. For joys or for disappointment. Why are we killing ourselves every minute when we all know that one day we shall die.
What can we do to live? How to live? No one taught us this. No one knows about this. Why is death so scary when we don't even know what it is to live.
I don't know. I wonder. I wonder if this is going anywhere? Yet I want to see things through. Why? Why not just be satisfied with these incomplete fragments. It's like a puzzle that no one can assemble. So why try?
Will there ever be any answers. Will there ever be a point when we will have what we want? Who can tell? Who knows? I guess no one.
14 January 2012
2012
The New Year, usually tarnished by cliches of resolutions and countdowns probably deserves a little more respect than that. For me, as a stuck up person who hates change, the new year is always a pain because I see a new number in the date column. Only very few understand how hard it is to watch 2011 metamorphose into 2012 and never come back again.
Though strangely ever since 2012 happened, I've been noticing some new things around me. For starters I never noticed the Hoboken Clock Tower in the 4 months that I've been in New York. Today I became aware of it's presence and loved it. There are good things about the United States and I know gradually I will come to admit it. The clock tower is a good start and now I can't wait to discover more of New York, more of USA.
Dear USA you are not an "other" in my romance with India. You are definitely "another", to love, cherish and appreciate. You are my two countries together.
Though strangely ever since 2012 happened, I've been noticing some new things around me. For starters I never noticed the Hoboken Clock Tower in the 4 months that I've been in New York. Today I became aware of it's presence and loved it. There are good things about the United States and I know gradually I will come to admit it. The clock tower is a good start and now I can't wait to discover more of New York, more of USA.
Dear USA you are not an "other" in my romance with India. You are definitely "another", to love, cherish and appreciate. You are my two countries together.
17 December 2011
The rose colored shades
We both had a pair. Large retro frames, our rose colored shades. It was a love affair, all of seven ages and four months. She had glorious long hair, billowing down to her waist . The first few stages are hazy in my mind. All I remember is that we were born together once. It was the age of innocence.
After that I remember only memories of us lying on our bed. Her eyes always tilted towards the sky, whispering poems. Sometimes she sang famous verses and sometimes a made up ramble of jumbled feelings.
She had questions I had no answers to. But still she never hesitated to ask. She asked me if she could be a mother but not a wife. She asked me if she could be a wife and a child. She asked me if she could be nobody. She asked me if she could be my wife. And in all this, did I mention I was mute but she heard me louder than I ever heard her speak. She asked me if I was her's. She asked me if she could be my wife.
My lips moved in a melancholic dance but not a word did they utter. Not a sigh of soothing relief, not a whimper, not a scream. And like this when we had passed many ages just lying on our bed, one day she made up her mind. I knew not what moment, had I noticed I would have done something. But with really brave hands, and an ominous sleigh of hand, she took off her rose shades. Before I knew she looked around and then turned her gaze. For the first time I saw them. Her eyes were large and set in a deep shade of pain. And when she looked into mine, her gaze couldn't penetrate my rose coloured haze. And so before I knew she merged into thin air. Vanish - like a childish magic game. She was gone.
And then I realized lying half dead. What was gone was a part of me. Her voice echoed in my dreams. I was haunted and there was no escape. So in a second I decided to do the same. But my sleigh of hand didn't know the routine and instead into my heart a dagger it did press. The red circle over my heart grew bigger and bigger until finally there was a whimper. I froze with my eyes strained towards the sky and saw her smiling at me through my rose colored shades.
After that I remember only memories of us lying on our bed. Her eyes always tilted towards the sky, whispering poems. Sometimes she sang famous verses and sometimes a made up ramble of jumbled feelings.
She had questions I had no answers to. But still she never hesitated to ask. She asked me if she could be a mother but not a wife. She asked me if she could be a wife and a child. She asked me if she could be nobody. She asked me if she could be my wife. And in all this, did I mention I was mute but she heard me louder than I ever heard her speak. She asked me if I was her's. She asked me if she could be my wife.
My lips moved in a melancholic dance but not a word did they utter. Not a sigh of soothing relief, not a whimper, not a scream. And like this when we had passed many ages just lying on our bed, one day she made up her mind. I knew not what moment, had I noticed I would have done something. But with really brave hands, and an ominous sleigh of hand, she took off her rose shades. Before I knew she looked around and then turned her gaze. For the first time I saw them. Her eyes were large and set in a deep shade of pain. And when she looked into mine, her gaze couldn't penetrate my rose coloured haze. And so before I knew she merged into thin air. Vanish - like a childish magic game. She was gone.
And then I realized lying half dead. What was gone was a part of me. Her voice echoed in my dreams. I was haunted and there was no escape. So in a second I decided to do the same. But my sleigh of hand didn't know the routine and instead into my heart a dagger it did press. The red circle over my heart grew bigger and bigger until finally there was a whimper. I froze with my eyes strained towards the sky and saw her smiling at me through my rose colored shades.
01 December 2011
24 November 2011
This thing between you and me
It's bluish purple. It's vast and intense.
It has no shape, no name, no religion.
It lives between you and me.
More on my side than yours.
It is the bastard of the world.
Fatherless mongrel, fruit of none.
Glows in the dark and in sunshine.
Sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque.
This thing between you and me,
one day will go away.
This thing between you and me will die.
I know.
It has no shape, no name, no religion.
It lives between you and me.
More on my side than yours.
It is the bastard of the world.
Fatherless mongrel, fruit of none.
Glows in the dark and in sunshine.
Sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque.
This thing between you and me,
one day will go away.
This thing between you and me will die.
I know.
16 November 2011
Nightmare, rainy New York day, sunset at 3:30pm and the weight of impending deadlines. Back in India I would light a Classic Mild and go out for coffee with my friend. Right now, I'd just talk to myself = blog, roll tobacco, smoke it and get back to work. Does this make me feel better? I sure hope so.
13 November 2011
The Dishwashing Nightmare
We all have had a string of housemaids while in India. And then when some of us moved to the United States we became our very own Housemaids. The queen of the kitchen and the toilet bowl, this interesting transition is alien to those back home, fooled by the glamorous Facebook photo updates from the Malibu beaches and the Brooklyn Bridges. That woman smiling with her million-dollar-software-engineer husband at Brooklyn Bridge was just scrubbing her newly acquired American non-stick with Ajax Super Strong Lime two hours ago. That was probably when you were getting your hair blow-dried and fabulous at the local salon for five hundred bucks. That's ten dollar for our Brooklyn Bridge lady. And the only thing she's getting for that much money here is her next order of Ajax super strong lime 40 ounce pack from amazon.
You are contemplating between Karim's biryani or Rajinder's chicken tikka for dinner. She is deciding whether to launder or to pack tomorrow's lunch. You decide both and enjoy a delicious dinner with friends or lovers or family. She decides laundry first and then tomorrow's lunch. Suddenly you realize, damn, I forgot the reshmi kabab. She remembers, damn, I forgot to clear out the kitchen. Ouch, that reshmi kabab was a dreadful miss.
Mrs. Malibu beach on the other hand or shall I say other coast is having a fancy dinner party with her other Indian friends at her place. Her newly acquired four hundred dollar Pottery Barn couch, spruced up with cushions dressed with mom-in-law-made crochet covers, is the center piece of the evening. Of course she and her husband spent all of friday night building that from scratch when Mr. Malibu got a frightful sprain in the back that murdered the prospects of any other kind of heavy workouts for the rest of the nights to follow. She tagged the photo "our new couch" under the album "LA Life". Then she tagged her entire gang of family and friends over different tiny corner's of the body of her priced possession. So, when you were checking out that picture, relaxing on your equally fabulous free-home-delivered-and-built couch, leaving a comment on her picture and wondering why it wasn't yours, she was loading her dishwasher with the aftermath of her dinner party and staring at the cycle timer with exhausted eyes.
The Facebook myth of the "American Dream Accentuated" gets fucked up when you get here, fall for the charming beauty of America, the luxury of choosing from a hundred and fifty brands of everything when suddenly your decaf medium roasted Jamaican coffee mug, low fat skimmed milk yogurt serving dish and mildly sweetened organic honey coated cereal bowl from the previous day come tumbling over you like a great tsunami wave and hit you on your head. Well then all you can do is smile, load the dishwasher and fool yourself with how the Ajax Super Strong Lime dishwashing liquid smells just a little bit sweeter than good old Vim Bar.
You are contemplating between Karim's biryani or Rajinder's chicken tikka for dinner. She is deciding whether to launder or to pack tomorrow's lunch. You decide both and enjoy a delicious dinner with friends or lovers or family. She decides laundry first and then tomorrow's lunch. Suddenly you realize, damn, I forgot the reshmi kabab. She remembers, damn, I forgot to clear out the kitchen. Ouch, that reshmi kabab was a dreadful miss.
Mrs. Malibu beach on the other hand or shall I say other coast is having a fancy dinner party with her other Indian friends at her place. Her newly acquired four hundred dollar Pottery Barn couch, spruced up with cushions dressed with mom-in-law-made crochet covers, is the center piece of the evening. Of course she and her husband spent all of friday night building that from scratch when Mr. Malibu got a frightful sprain in the back that murdered the prospects of any other kind of heavy workouts for the rest of the nights to follow. She tagged the photo "our new couch" under the album "LA Life". Then she tagged her entire gang of family and friends over different tiny corner's of the body of her priced possession. So, when you were checking out that picture, relaxing on your equally fabulous free-home-delivered-and-built couch, leaving a comment on her picture and wondering why it wasn't yours, she was loading her dishwasher with the aftermath of her dinner party and staring at the cycle timer with exhausted eyes.
The Facebook myth of the "American Dream Accentuated" gets fucked up when you get here, fall for the charming beauty of America, the luxury of choosing from a hundred and fifty brands of everything when suddenly your decaf medium roasted Jamaican coffee mug, low fat skimmed milk yogurt serving dish and mildly sweetened organic honey coated cereal bowl from the previous day come tumbling over you like a great tsunami wave and hit you on your head. Well then all you can do is smile, load the dishwasher and fool yourself with how the Ajax Super Strong Lime dishwashing liquid smells just a little bit sweeter than good old Vim Bar.
06 November 2011
The beginning...
She was an ordinary girl fighting the same battles as everybody else. She was trying to find herself. She was trying to be somebody worthwhile. She was doing all this while she was living in two countries together. With a whole future lying in front of her at America she had friends, family and loved ones in India. She may have travelled many many miles away from her homeland but was she ever able to leave it?
Her pc was still set on India time while her wrist watch was ticking along the Eastern time. Life may have separated her from where she belonged but her heart, her mind never allowed that to happen. And what was really so wrong about living in two countries together? It wasn't like cheating or anything. It's not even a matter of switching on and off. The two spaces perfectly co-existed for her. Mere physical presence was not everything.
Giving up on one thing for a new pursuit was not for her. Why couldn't she love two places at the same time. Why couldn't she have what she had and have some more? This was not a dilemma, not some sort of psychosis. This was a fact. She was living and loving two countries together.
Her pc was still set on India time while her wrist watch was ticking along the Eastern time. Life may have separated her from where she belonged but her heart, her mind never allowed that to happen. And what was really so wrong about living in two countries together? It wasn't like cheating or anything. It's not even a matter of switching on and off. The two spaces perfectly co-existed for her. Mere physical presence was not everything.
Giving up on one thing for a new pursuit was not for her. Why couldn't she love two places at the same time. Why couldn't she have what she had and have some more? This was not a dilemma, not some sort of psychosis. This was a fact. She was living and loving two countries together.
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