They have been there for me always. And yet, these days when I speak to them I just can’t shake off the feeling of restlessness. I miss calls. Am late in calling back, all the while knowing this is not me. And yet, I just can’t shake it all off and then draw back. The cloud of confusion engulfs me as I sit sipping coffee or making plans for the next movie or the Ghazal concert.
A close friend told me something strange a few days back. He said, “Banjo, as we are getting older, we are becoming much less courageous.” I guess he’s right.
I tried going to plays. In fact, I think I have become the biggest follower of Rage and Rahul Da Cunha. I have not missed a Rage Play since I have been to Mumbai. I went to Chaos Theory and in spite of its brilliant wit and dialogues; I began comparing it to Love Letters. Unfair competition, I agree. I then went to Me, Kash and Cruise and realized that a brilliant style perhaps cannot make up for a weak script ridden with clichés. But Rajit Kapur, you have to applaud him. He came in at moments to define the world outside the three main protagonists and yet had our attention all through.
I tried going back to my childhood with Drona. I would recommend you go and watch it if only for seeing what Indian fantasy genre will become with time. The special effects were great. Priyanka was awesome. If only Abhishek Bachhan realized earlier that he exactly cannot pass off as a superhero. The movie would have been a super hit had Hritik been there I guess. And KK. He continues to amaze me. A few more roles as a villain and he would have arrived. Anyway Drona remained at best a ‘could have been better movie’ and I went home dreaming about having a sword of my own.
These days I do not have easy access to poetry. But going back to poetry has always worked for me. I found this amazingly angry piece a few days back. I think poetry is something that is demanding its due share of my reading time.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
Starving hysterical naked.
Dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking
For an angry fix,
Angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
To the starry dynamo
In the machinery of night
Poetry and Amar Chitra Katha. It’s time to get away from snobbishness and get back to innocence. The first authors were poets. Remember Vyas and Homer someone? And before them came the painters in the caves.
Art – Who defines what good art is and what is bad?