arms to pillow,
hearts to wrestle
blind,like birds
under a bucket.
eyes gave us measure,
some pieces
of the mirror I sleep
beside, and what is
left of it, in your way
Imagine
error
without reasonable doubt,
and it looks
good , abruptly
they say
mountains-even
the metaphorical kind-
inevitably,
make you go backwards,
and turn horses
into men ,who
would
rather undergo surgeries
than crises.
Seated in this chair;my mattress
now breathing,reimbursement
in the fact that not one person
died in my room this week.There
was the unusual flailing of the
arms,and some difficult groans
by the man who shits by his bed.
But ward-3 made it through
last night as well.I hear there
were 2 next door- you wouldn't
really call them neighbours. Because
for once they are unwilling to
receive your mail,or hold your
keys.You don't want postmen
making mistakes at the hospital.
It is midnight;men and women
dart in opposite directions,other
side of the window.The random
appearance of a person who
looks like-isn't scooting to save
a life,is actually,relieving.For two
hours that has not happened,and
I think it is awfully unquiet elsewhere.
Besides,you do not find aggressively
apathetic visitors,outside a bar,
in the middle of the night.Here,the
moon,the night,the dawn matter only
in a passive sense.Mornings in
ward-3 will see attendants,return
to their jobs.Hopefully,from exile.
I rarely ever let my other-world life leak into my blog ,but I have been overwhelmed by a recent Film.The first of its kind made in India.Here is a short rant about how this is something I had been waiting for a long long time.
That Indian cinema has been for years,even decades, treading a fine seam,unfolded by its own sense of directionless is a mere understatement.The coming of age for this industry has been now ,for an eternity an ever dropping sun on the backside of years of darkness.In a country where an art-form is often objectively summarized in terms of the artist and not the piece of art itself,something of a breakthrough has been made. Anand Gandhi's Ship Of Theseus has made nearly a century of history in the Indian film business look like a popcorn gummed,tearfully spun,inanely bubbling bowl of soup,the deli at the corner of the street might serve to earn the vindictive buck.
It is no point in mathematically dissecting the film for its title,subject and conclusion(available elsewhere).That is of course, at least in this case, for the now 'fabled'Indian cinema goer to consider and construe.Ship of Theseus presents little in terms of a chumming opinion one would prefer to form of nearly two and half hours spent,didactically learning,and eventually unlearning their well placed terms of moral coherence.Cinema,especially in this country,has for years driveled out stockpile after stockpile of transversely discontinuous waves of emotion,doing so much so as momentarily flip self-associating burgers for the transfixed man sitting in the front row,having coaxed himself into accepting 'promoted' realism as his fast food for a fast life.What Ship of Theseus offers is completely different from anything that has ever been accessible to the Cinema fan aside the perplexity at the sheer inaudibility, of the voice-over one may get to hear any time between the evolutionary handover from generation to generation of this art.Of course there are un-relatable minor threads in the film and even a broad dissonance in what is infectious about films in a personal sense. But then nothing really captures the essence of the film in one word other than 'strength'-in the sense that probably for the first time the Cinema goer shall feel empowered about his own sense of purpose,or the lack of it, even in something so 'hippie-shly' mundane as watching a thoughtful motion picture.Visually astounding,elegantly written,seamlessly intelligent,this film surpasses all its descendants if ever there have been any,to the extent that their one lasting impression of 'chance' by the end may have been otherwise, considered as unfortunate.Only, if compared with the international arena does a sense of perspective arrive in eliciting flaws in the film,otherwise unblemished,mainly for its courage to be prudently different. Thus has been delivered ,some retribution for our metronomic endurance of this trade,if and that is if you consider yourself a connoisseur of the music now reluctantly playing(inside the myriad theatres of the country),and not the instruments.
I relish bad memory:an off-putting
retailers trick, to sell me cud
as with little repairing effect of my own
I come and go;see people in a shameful daze
in a centre of the hue situation
where from the craziness begins
the glove in hand bleakness
i have to drink to every night.
