My Drugged Dream!

Still trying to be a film-maker! One day, will make the best one!

Red.

As the sun rose, it was time to say Goodnight. The coffee that keeps her up every night, night after night, is just like her.

She was red, and it was espresso.

It was the kind of house, the newcomers end up in. if you’re insane rich, the kind who stink of money, the kind who count lose change in bills, probably have never seen a place like this. A small room, accommodates a bed, a multi-purpose table a small mirror and dressing hanging by the bedside and a wardrobe, all in one. No room for new, but new stuff came in, regularly. In pizza boxes, in shopping bags. They magically find their places. Under and over what already marked its territory!

The wardrobe is vivid, an expansive definition of she. Just like the coffee. The plethora of faces that she is, all neatly stacked, side by side. Each a different person, a different face of the many faced, just the coffee at the café. Some with crème, some with liquor. Some served hot, and some served in ice.

Red, she was called, was also Julia, cappuccino, the receptionist; also Sonja, the Ice latte, bartender, Mary, Ana, Lucy, Jane, Eva and everybody else. Like the Frappe, Mocha, Irish, Filter, American and every other. Each name associating a section, a class of the city. From the man who carries his home in a wheel cart, to the drivers of the expensive cars. From the butlers of the rich to the people who sit in the back seat and talk business, all knew her. But she was Red, not Eva, Sonja, not Ana, Jane, Lucy, Mary, or Julia.

Every night Red dressed in pink, and denim shorts, maybe hot pants, and black stilettos, would sit on the bed. Coffee after coffee, to keep her awake, for she knew there will be some William, or Tony or Adam, who with his pocket full with a day’s work will drop by. Or a Thomas, or a Larry with their fat chequebooks and even fatter billfold. Some with thousands to throw and some counting lose change would knock at her door. The David or the Michael who are caught up in work.

Red stayed up all night. Every night, she waited in her room. In the light of the Red Lamp that hung from the ceiling, she would get dressed. A pink tank top and Denim shorts, maybe hot pants. And black stilettos. Red would wait, in pink in blue and in her black.

They all came, just not him. With the crisp currency in her ears, she would lose herself. She would lose the black, the pink and the blue, for it was their pleasure that mattered. They never stayed, they had to leave. When morning came, Red was gone. A Julia or a Sonja stepped out to the world. And Eva would come, and Ana would come, by the time it was Dark, Red was home. She waited for him, he never did come. She waited for her Robin Hood. Another night gone.

Every morning she looked into the mirror, to check if she was Red, to see if she was different, Jane, Lucy or Mary. To see if she was the same, how he had known.

Mumbai Spirit?? Not with my life!!

No bruises. No burns. No cuts. Physically I'm fine. But I'm afraid. I'm scared. I'm frightened. Find any state of mind that shall describe an agitated state of mind, anxious, nervous and many more and I am that. But not excited.

Why? Because I had to take the bus back. Because I didn't know who will ride the bus with me. Because there were loved ones whom I couldn't call and because I live in a building where live another four hundred people whom I do not know. The city had been attacked for a third time in just over five years. The serial blasts that happened in the suburban trains in Mumbai in 2006. The open gunfire attack of November 2008, which lasted more than two full days, in the heart of the city, targeting civilians, foreign nationals, security personnel alike. And, the latest triple blasts. In the meantime there have been Hyderabad, Jaipur, Bangalore, Delhi, Malegaon, Guwahati...

Are we not allowed a little peace? A little peace on the streets? A little peace around us and a little peace inside us? Is that too much to ask for?



Promises have been made, but Promises are meant to be broken. Aren’t they? It’s more an abuse to me, directed by the few hundred elected to safeguard the country and its people. The few chosen to provide the feel good factor. And what do we know about them, over the years they have inflated pockets and bank balances that would put the turnover of the biggest corporations a drop in the ocean. The price not the cost, of living, is so high that millions of the billions choose not to live, another millions cannot live.

Countless number of people have lost their lives and what have we done about it? Appreciated a few films like ‘A Wednesday’, ‘Mumbai Meri Jaan’.

We went ahead and hailed the Mumbai spirit. The city never backs away. Only to be targeted again? Spirit breaks. Ask the ones who lost their near and dear ones. Ask those who saw death right in front of their eyes and ask those who cheated death by a whisker!

I don’t conform to the Mumbai spirit; to me it is just deceit. A deception in plain sight, created to keep the machinery running. To assure the people who survived to come out and die another day. To tell those who lost their families that the rest of the city does not care about your loss.

Calls weren’t connected. Communication channels were severed. Chaos was the order and panic was served. Lives were lost. Damn. It was nothing less than an emergency but our political leaders would not acknowledge that. It would be a sad day, a black spot on their resume. The country has been put up for sale.

In the minutes of madness, my strength, my composure and my resolve were being put to test. People I loved were on the streets. I was on the streets. The lives of millions of people were at stake. The smile on their faces, gone, vanished, taken away. Time in their lives had been replaced with moments of extreme paranoia. Life around me, my life was compromised.

No, I don’t conform to the Mumbai spirit, not with my life, my smile on the line.

My Lady Lioness

When she was born

The clouds had parted

The heavens had poured

Not tears of joy, not of sorrow

Tears of fear

For the freedom was gone

She would not know

How much they scare

The empress she was

From a lion’s lair

Power blossomed when her fingers rolled

Charm floated but her eyes were cold

The roar like a thunder

When Ah! She sighed

All along

I was by her side

I watched her prey

And I watched her pray

I stayed by her side

And I watched her pain

The candle had blown

Though the wind was gone

It was her will

She lay so still

My life in my arms

The life I had lost

I could feel the beat

I could hear her breathe

Though the shadows were old

We were not cold

The fear was gone

When she came home

The Godfather By Mario Puzo -- Akshat Ayan

It had been due. A long time. The Godfather needed to be reviewed and I picked up the book a second time just for the cause. Although I remembered all about the Don and Michael and Luca and Carlo and Kay, a second glance to the book was absolutely necessary. I read through most of the books, remember The Godfather is in books and not parts, but towards the end I felt I need to stop. I already knew the events that were to follow, but so real was the description that I felt a chill, on my second read, that those event had caused in me after I had read the book for the first time.

My best ideas of World War II came from movies like Guns of Navarone and its contemporaries, and some through the more recent Valkyrie. I am more than 40 years younger to the end of the war, and while reading Godfather I felt I was there. I could picture the mall housing that the Don and his family lived in. I could see the not so high rising New York and the less populated streets and beaches of Long Island. I felt like the younger brother to Michael, like the fourth son to Don Vito Corleone, always present there and witnessing and learning the trade under the guidance of the best.

Mario Puzo recreated a world for me which I could never witness. Every line was a frame in itself and I could picture myself standing in a corner, learning the ways of the Don. I was there in New York for Connie's wedding, I was there when Don was shot and I was there in the passenger seat when Sonny was murdered. I was the best man to Michael when he married Apollonia in Sicily.

I knew the time had come when Carlo Rizzi would be strangled, and when Emilio Barzini and Philip Tattaglia would be shot, but I didn't want to read through, not because Mario had written something extraordinary, but because he had written something so extraordinary that I didn't want to be a witness to the time when the Innocent Michael became Don. I didn't want to be a witnes again to his brutality and to his cunning. I probably didn't want to learn from this Michael because if I continued reading I surely would. Probably, somewhere I wanted Tom to be the Judas who betrays the family so much. But the events did not change. They happened in the same order once again, they had to, and in the end, I did read, because Mario compelled me to.

Forgive me Mario Puzo for addressing you as Mario, I commit the folly with utmost respect for you.

Is it me?

Caring, interpersonal, sincere and relationship oriented. Know what people want and need. Enthusiastic and having a good sense of humour. Empathetic and warm-hearted, demand affection and approval. Friendly and generous and self sacrificing, can also be sentimental, flattering and people pleasing. Seek to be loved and appreciated by becoming indispensable to another person. Well-meaning and devoted to meeting others' needs. Can be possessive and manipulative, and have many 'selves'.

Or

Optimistic, extrovert, productive, spontaneous, fun-loving type. Symbolized by Peter Pan, the eternal youth. Adventurous, with a gourmet approach to life. Have trouble with commitment, want to keep the options open. Generally happy, playful and stimulating to be around, habit of starting things but not seeing them through, can become over-extended, scattered, and undisciplined and self-serving. Constantly seek new and exciting experiences, and can be impatient and impulsive. Do not let Life's troubles get to; being outspoken and outrageous is part of life. Generous and have the guts to take risks and to try exciting adventures.

Both define me perfectly, and times both just seem to be rude, untrue for I shall not say false. Its not that easy picking which one is me. Probably both, as the demand be, and often both. But never none.