Corrupted Colors

You see me on TV and in the movies, you read about me in the papers, you despise me and call my life rotten and dull. But your wrong there, my life is more colorful than yours could ever be, in a way that I hate

Red, the color of my saree, my soft coat of arms that protects my delicate beauty from the shady eyes of the undeserving . But the saree is a formality at the moment , its purpose is more like the wrapper of a candy bar. In moments it will be torn open and I will be ravaged and consumed in more ways than one.

Brown, the color of my eyes, eyes that have seen the same massacre a hundred times. Eyes that were once lustrous and fresh like an ocean , flowing with tears of innocence. But now they are dry and empty, frozen in submission, unchanged by the brutal savageness that they see everyday.

Grey , the color of the skies that are filled with puffed up clouds. Clouds that will cry on my behalf, because I can no longer do so. My tears are a turn off to my customers. Customers who want me to pretend that I am hit with Euphoria, as if I loved serving them and their lust. They believe that my smile can help remove the guilt that hits their conscience when they look at their own daughters.

Green, the color that motivates my uncle, who also happens to be my employer . The same color that motivated him to poison my mother, so that he could become my guardian and many other things.

Pink the color of my mothers cheeks, when they blushed with happiness after I told her that I received a scholarship at the local college. We would spend hours dreaming and talking about all the things we would do after I was employed. They were little dreams made of a small one bedroom apartment and three square meals a day.

Inevitably, I was employed.

Blue, the color of my hard bound appointment book. I was a very busy woman and also the heart of the organization that I worked for. I service clients from all over the world and customer satisfaction is always guaranteed, hence I work with Everyone from the foreign ambassadors that visit to the local mafia heads . I have business meetings everyday in the most expensive suits of the best hotels in the city. My clients love me mainly for my troubleshooting abilities.

Most of them have been in the business for far too long, and have in turn depleted all their man power. Some have gotten bored of life itself and I help them rediscover themselves, some need a quick vacation spanning a few hours and I take them to the heavens. Others want me to even add a dash of drama, they want ferocity and real love. Many just use me as if I were a machine of sorts. At the end of the day I faithfuly deliver, without choice or emotion. I compare myself to a pay phone, drop the coin in and I’m forced to connect you to your deepest desires.

The very people who call me and my colleagues a whore by day, are the people you use me by night. Your wondering why I don’t say no? Why I don’t run away. That’s because my uncle loves me too much and he believes that the world is not a safe place for a pretty little girl like me. If I fail to comply, I’ll be fired.

The Sound Of Silence

Tip tap, tip tap was the sound that came from the tap in the kitchen
sink. Its solemn little voice would usually be drowned by the sound of
the house and its implanted organs, organs that were now asleep, they
could not shine, scream or animate as the juice that powered them
flowed no more, a temporary halt. For a moment it felt as if the
entire house was dead , all of life sucked out, as if it lay in
eternal slumber .

Fear gripped me as I sat in the corner, deprived of all the
artificial light that usually flooded my surroundings. I was waiting,
waiting for a big black monster to jump out at me from the corner ,
but it wouldn’t come . Its funny how the absence of light can actually
make one insecure and twist the mood . We humans take refuge under
well lit spaces, believing that they could somehow guard us from our
darkest fears.

The tip tap of the drops was now amplified like never before, its
clarity was hauntingly astounding. It possessed beauty, and some show
carried the promise of peace. It synchronized itself with the Tick
Tock of the clock in the hall , and this was the beginning of a
metronome. Together their tones clashed against each other, like
brothers forced into war. Every second was so different, yet so
repetitive.

I fell back on my bed and let the sounds explore the canals of my
ears. They entered my head as waves of subtle feeling, meaningless but
peace full. The rhythm was suddenly attacked by a bang that originated
at the ceiling of my room. New neighbors had moved in, a young couple,
they had curious feel to themselves.

The banging continued and it reminded me of a battle. The bangs
continued, and they were slow and powerful, full of meaning,
determined by intent, like battering ram forcing its way in. The
metronome of the tip tap and the tick tock were now submerged in the
background and they felt like war drums, motivating the force behind
this ram. Power and purpose proved a vital combination.

Then slowly the speed increased and the atmosphere changed, now it
was a struggle, it was fast and deadly. The force met a powerful
resistance that was hard to overcome. The bangs quickened in power and
pace, but the enemy equaled all that was thrown against it, it would
not subdue or give in. It resisted for far too long, until it could no
longer battle the inevitable, all energy was drained. It gave in, but
felt victory instead of defeat, and the bangs were now fading away and
a sudden loud giggle tore through the air. And it was over. The
metronome continued and now it dominated the scene. It was beautiful,
richer than the grandest orchestra !

Suddenly, the house sprang back into life and my stereo screamed.
Music was what I called it, but not anymore. It was mindless compared
to what I had just heard. It was artificial, devoid of true feeling.

Real Cinema

Fresh pop corn liberally smeared with large amounts of butter, and a huge serving chilled pepsi was all my friend enjoyed at a tamil movie we recently saw together. The protagonist would jump in the air and dodge bullets, sometimes even bounce them off his body and do many things to save the lustrous heroine . He would deliver dialogues of a higher intellect and caliber with a sacred, yet eloquent meaning . He would portray a monumental character of a legend, he would do noble, great and commendable things, he would perform feats that were unimaginable. Sing songs to woe the girls and mock the villains. He would do all of it to entertain you.

And what do you do ? You write him off , call him typical and stupid, and childish in more ways than one. You would call him names that would make his children cry. Why is my question ? And your answer would be, ‘ Macha, its not realistic or practical da, something’s missing “ . Realistic, lets go through that term, what is reality ? Global warming, corruption, your ugly girlfriend, the house loan that you can’t afford to repay, the horrid food at the hostel mess. Now that’s reality. If all of you crave for reality, then why go to the cinemas at all ? Why don’t you just stay at home and drown yourself in your so called reality.

But then you demand real cinema, at least you heard the critics on TV use that term, “Real Cinema” . Your not sure about what it actually means, but you want it so badly, believing that you actually have the maturity to appreciate and enjoy it. There were movies that were made ,great movies, and if I mentioned those names, you would have never heard of them, they would sound like Korean Hip Hop. They were original classics, and no im not talking about those names on Lion Dates Top Ten Movies that you see on SUN TV every Sunday morning. Im talking about movies that are true originals. They are like the patterns created by the clouds in the ever changing sky, natural in origin. They are works of art created as if they were a feeling, a jolt of energy, a wave of passion that projected the most articulate expressions.

These were beautiful movies, real cinema. But the local distributor wouldn’t have it, he wouldn’t run the movies at all! Why? Because they were too complex for the audience, and that they aren’t made well and so no one would watch them . “Not made well ? What are you talking about” the filmmaker would say. And the reply would be simple, as simple as a magnum .45 in your face. The movies is sad, there aren’t any pretty sixteen year olds running around in their underwear , there are no stars in the flick, only actors. But the funny thing is that these actors can actually serve their purpose unlike the stars, they can actually act and do a good job. But no ! You cant watch a movie without a star, it wont sell, who would want a movie without a star ?

So the filmmaker, the guy who sold his house, car, property that his grandfather left him, his son’s bike, and other things in order to make a movie he loved, sells the reel to the worst theatre in town for peanuts ! He makes no profit off it at all, none. He doesn’t even break even, and its all over. They call him a failure, a fool and a delinquent. He kills himself by drowning in an ocean of booze and heroin. Three decades later some moron actually understands the true beauty of the movie and spreads the word, and the movie becomes famous, spectacular they call it ,true work of art, a Classic ! They worship it and bathe in its greatness. The grandson of the filmmaker, the guy who womanizes by day and works in a call center by night, is suddenly rich beyond his dreams, all because of a man who was supposedly his relative ! But whats the point, the real artist died as a heart broken man, who didn't have enough money to watch his own movie in a theater. And after all this ,you say that you want " Real Cinema" !!!!

Beauty and Innocence

Beauty. A word that was once pure ,innocent and natural, like a virgin. A word that made you feel an emotion that was as pure as the rain that trickles down your cheeks on the dawn of a beautiful monsoon. Cheeks that are ridden with war paint and other stuff of an adulterous sort. They are artificial, as artificial as our conception of beauty.

My heart goes back to an era, a time when beauty did not exist to please those who observed it, but to simply shine in temporal radiance , that could be remembered for all eternity . But due to its pure intent, it was adored ,loved and honored in the most genuine way permitable. It was like a joyous child birth. The father and mother were the artists and their passion was love, pure beautiful love. They engaged in the skill day and night and created art in the form of a child. Their effort was innocent at its core and they created something special. A creation that was the most beautiful thing in their eyes. They just did what they loved doing, without an intent to please those around them, and the result was raw beauty . And the love was so powerful that the child had a smile that could bring warmth to ones heart and melt the most massive chunks of misery, simply for the mere reason that it was all natural, without the false intent of wanting to please others. The child was a piece of art that was created not for the adoration or appreciation of the crowd, or for the sake of art, but instead to celebrate the love of the father and mother. And that is why it will always be beautiful.

All of us love children and are most beautiful as children. Simply for the reason that our innocence during that age does allows us to only do things that we want to do, irrespective of the likes and dislikes of the world around us. We cannot wear plastic masks that are forged out of the most ancient lies. Our innocence is what makes us beautiful, it is what makes an artist a legend of sorts.

We must remember to practice art so as to find answers that lie deep within our soul, to kindle the most noble feelings that are let loose in the jungles of our minds, to do something simple because we love doing it. And then all that we weave, mould and paint will be beautiful.