Arunoday Singh

They just won’t let her be will they?  They’ll break her heart, and the hearts of everyone that wishes her success.  Because she’s got nothing to offer them but her voice.  And in this MTV video world - that means nothing at all.  The poor woman’s gotten herself examined by a psychiatrist and he said not to continue.  But she’s so close to the dream, how can she stop now?  So she’s sequestered herself until the finals.

I wrote out against Reality TV in one of my previous posts and that post got a lot of replies from readers.  Readers who mostly agreed with me, that such programs showcase all that’s base and banal and bawdy and raise it to the level of culture and art.  One reader commented on this show called “Splitsvilla”.  I had never watched this show before, being severely allergic to the television.  But I made myself watch it, so forgive me the following profanity - WHAT THE FUCK???

Is this the kind of behaviour women should be condoning and encouraging and lusting for in men?  Is this the best we men can do to woo worthy women?  I try to think not, but every weekend party I attend, I find that ninety percent of the people I see around me vallidate and personnify this degrading, demoralizing kind of social behaviour.

And here’s Susan Boyle - wishing her poor Scottish self stayed in that church.  As my landlady in New York would say, “Girl, you done messed yourself up.”  You stepped into the limelight, and the limelight’s made of acid.  It leaves nothing of you behind.  There are psychologist’s who have commented that her mental state is alarmingly fraught and fragile with all the negative press she’s been getting after being bullied by journalists in a hotel.  You know what’ll be worse for this woman than losing the show?  Winning it.  Then they’ll shine a light on her life and leave it on.  A bright white merciless halogen on everything she was and everything she will now have to become.

I often wonder that none of us who want to bask in the limelight, really ever realize just how high the cost of fame and success really is.  And all of us have a basic desire for recognition, of being a singular presence in a faceless multitude.  But it’s a basic survival instinct in all animals - it’s the one thats unique that get cast out.  Should that mean we should stop striving to excell, to better ourselves, to fight our way to center stage?  I wish I could say yes.  But that’s precisely what my life is all about.  Being an actor for me is about the craft, and is about the joy I feel while I’m working.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I want heads to turn when I walk into a room, or the way a girl to stare when she realizes who I am. 

But look at Frieda Pinto.  No one seems to be saying anything nice about her in India anymore.   Everyone I overhear calls her things the poor girl just doesn’t deserve.  Look at the Azharudin and Rubina, who will never lead normal lives again.  How often will Danny Boyle be able to come and bail them out?  How long will their parents be able to pretend to be who they need to be in front of all the cameras pointed their way?  What about their friends and family members who probably cared not a whit about them before the stars fell, and now just won’t go away?

Goddess, sometimes, the smartest thing I can do, is stay home, cook myself a nice hot meal and curl up with a book.  Some nights, I love the fact that no one knows who I am or what I’m about.

But I’d be lying if I said I can’t wait for that to change!

What complicated creatures we humans be!

They surge within me like a drowning tide.  Pushing against the walls of my mind, calling me down to the empty page, then abandoning me, their laughter drowning out the sounds of traffic outside my window.  This city won’t let me sleep tonight.  Its whispering its secrets to me, of all the hidden places within the people crawling through its layers, of the wells of joy being drained dry by the unquenchable thirst of the miserable.  That noisy beast called Traffic’s horns goring my eardrums, leaving them insensate to the laughter of the children I see around my building.

My neighbor’s little girl smiles and gives me a flower everyday she sees me.  She’s comes no higher than my knee and her eyes hold all that I wish to write about.  Each time she gives me a flower I feel like an undeserving ogre, but I smile and take it, and keep it next to my books until it withers away.  I hear my other neighbor yelling at her servant.  She’s always yelling, at the servant, at her children, at the building guards.  I never hear her yell at her husband.  Her husband with the cloying sweet breath and hands that remind me of the bullies of my childhood.  No wonder she takes her anger out on everybody but him.  She even tried to yell at me once, but something in my eyes stopped her.  She saw through me, for a second she saw past the man and saw the animal, the one we all keep chained inside.  But she was yelling at her little daughter, and my animal didn’t like that.

Everyday I wake up praying for the rains to come and wash the dust of this year off of me.  And everyday I see the clouds blow past without a single tear shed for us down below.  I dream these days more than I usually do.  Each dream merges into the next until I’m floating through the nightime sky like in Chagall’s painting - with a yellow goat playing the violin guiding me through.

I’m an addict in a prison made from my addiction, I’m a psychedelic prince in a monochromatic  world.  I’m the last of the poets lost in a crowd, I’m the unfulfilled wish, the dying dream, the undying desire.  I’m a Kings of Leon CD playing while making love.  I am the last page of the book before your eyes fall asleep.  The best cup of coffee left until it got cold.  I’m all the words I wish I could write.

Words don’t come so easy no more.  They avoid me like disappointed parents who caught me with a joint and a smile.  They look at me like my dog does after I yell at him.

I’m….done for tonight…

Today was my favorite kind of day - a work day.  I absolutely, unequivocally, psychotically love my job.  From early morning until now I’ve been at Mehboob Studios in Bandra, shooting there for the first time, for the last two days of my second film entitled “Mirch”.  There is a very infectious camaraderie on the sets I’ve been on.  I’ve heard that that’s not always the case, and countless people have amused me with their anecdotes about directors and actors who have been real tyrants and difficult to please, and I suppose if luck holds, I’ll probably end up working with those people sooner or later.

But not today.  Today I got paid to make out with an actress.  And before you think that’s all fun and games, try to imagine yourself kissing someone surrounding by at least twenty people all watching, gauging, measuring intently everything from your level of passion to the position of your bodies with relation to the lights, your expressions, your angles, your movements….

But the actress was a lovely girl who giggled her way through the entire day, and I’m a man most comfortable in front of the camera.  Even so, it was an interesting experience trying to use all that I have mastered in the amorous arts and failing miserably because of things like : blocking her light, her hair blocking my face, my head bouncing out of frame.  But the director was patient, the actress a darling, and the crew a highly amused crowd.  So the day passed successfully and we finished in time for most of them to get back home and switch on the IPL finals.

Me…I came home to write to you and to drink my first cup of green tea of the day.

It occurs to me that today could have transpired very differently had the actress been any less comfortable with herself and with me than she was.  I’ve become aware recently of how hypocritical a stance most actors and directors will take on the subject of physical contact between lovers.  I’m not even going to talk about a proper sex scene such as the legendary ones in films such as “Last Tango in Paris” and “Sea of Love” and many others.  Just kissing sends people blushing and retreating off the sets, or turn down a script that, but for the a few moments of justified passion, would ignite their careers.

But I suppose it will take me sometime to readjust to the Indian ideologies concerning physical contact on screen.  I’ve been corrupted by the decadent West, I suppose.

Don’t we kiss in real life?  As often as we possibly can, right?  So what’s the big deal?  Oh well, at least I’m uninhibited and true to my art.  That’ll do for now I suppose.

This one’s for a Sidharth Mishra who told me that he’s slowly getting addicted to my blog, but that my unpredictable style and infrequency was putting him off.

Well Sid, I could say that I will try and write everyday, but I’d be lying.  I’m not a consistent person.  And I consider that a very important part of who I am, with all its attendant limitations and also a sense of freedom.  I love to write.  This blog was offered to me by the Big Adda people primarily because my first film “Sikandar” (which shall be hitting the theatres as soon as the fucking strike is over!!!) was produced in part by Big Pictures.  This was part of their promotional work for the film.

I’ve kept writing since and will continue to do so here because I love to write.  And this blog affords me some focus and a reason to write.  The trouble with having a brain as inconsistent and curious as mine is that it never sticks to a single idea long enough for me to follow it through enough.  I’ve sat for days and written no more than a single paragraph.  I’ve come home after 4 in the morning after a night out with a lady and written forty pages.  I’m not an artist, but I am most certainly an aspirant to the title.  And art is never consistent.

I suppose one way to make this blog consistent would be to relate the events of my not-so-exciting days, everyday.  Boring.  But with a sense of humor like mine I’m sure I could make it fun.

Yesterday was a good day.  I woke without a single twinge of pain from the muscle pull I suffered recently.  I stumbled into the bathroom and manage to piss into the pot and not spill a drop.  I don’t know about you fellows, but that first morning piss is a serious session of target practice for me.

The day itself passed pretty peacefully.  I mostly just drank lots of green tea and read and reread the most recent script I’ve had the good fortune to be cast in.  Trying to do character work is a wonderfully frustrating exercise for me.  I’m always at a loss as to how exactly to go about the research.  But some ideas percolate through and the day passes with some feeling of accomplishment.

Then in the evening IT RAINS!  I love the Monsoon.  If there is any season more life-affirming and amatory than the Indian Monsoon I haven’t encountered it.  Now all I need is a pretty young armful with an infectious giggle and an absurd sense of humor and I’m in bliss.  Went out with Piyush Jha, the director of “Sikandar” yesterday night to a live music lounge called Il Terrazo in Juhu which was superb.  The first performer was this young, shy girl with kinky black hair and a guitar and I swear she could put Norah Jones out of business.

Met some nice people, some pretty girls.  But my mojo doesn’t seem to quite so potent in Bombay.  I’m trying to figure out why.  Maybe it’s because I’m trying too hard.  One girl asked me where I was from.  So I said “I’m Indian, but most recently I’m from London and New York.”  And she looked at me and said “So you’re a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat)!”  I swear to you, my heart sank all the way through the floor.  So pretty, and so stupid.  Tragic.  Another girl invited us to another party at a different locale.  And when if a pretty girl asks, I would shake it like a monkey in mango tree.  Fuhgidabowdit!  So a pretty young Spanish chica, inviting me to a dance party? 

But my Spanish rose turned out to be a little too popular for my tastes.  And the music was too loud and too electronic.  Whatever happened to music?  What’s up with all this noise everybody’s banging their heads bloody to?  So we drove away, early morning eggs at Sun and Sand, laughter, conversation, meeting more people where we sat.  Invited them to join us which they did.  More laughter and that quiet warmth in my stomach that told me, I’m finally accepting my new life in Bombay.

This town can grow on you.  It certainly has started to with me.

I’ll sign off here lest I bore everyone to death.  Hope to see you all as soon as I can manage.  No promises.  But I will make an effort to be more regular with my posts.

I taste

Smile upon your lips

Ashes in your mouth

Calling me down

Down into the bedroom

You shake

Like I’m a blizzard

Bearing you down

Down into forever

We make

All that’s forbidden

All that was needed

Rags upon the midden

Tangled up in shadows

Dancing out the window.

It’s almost exactly a year now since I started shooting for my first feature film Sikandar.  Before that I was wandering the vast wastelands of New York and London, begging for acting job handouts.  Going to audition after audition, where I was told before I even got a chance to read for the part, that I didn’t “look right”.  Too tall, too big, too brown, too Indian, not Indian enough, not white enough, not good looking enough et all.  In three years I took more rejection than most people amass in a lifetime.

But a very great teacher named James Price told me that in New York before I even took my first step down this path.  The great ones weren’t necessarily better than the others.  The great ones are the ones that are just too damn stubborn to quit.

I was so excited to get a part in “Sikandar”.  It was a great script, with a wonderfully odd and intelligent director, Piyush Jha, and best of all, it had a place for me in it!  It’s strange to chase a single dream for years without any idea really what the dream actually entails.  I’ve known I wanted to be an actor ever since I was 9 years old and saw the movie “On the Waterfront” with Marlon Brando.  But you can want something bad enough that isn’t right for you.  “Sikandar” showed me how much the life of an actor fits me.  I love the research, the preparation, the rehearsals, the readings, the long conversations with cast members on set with really, really terrible tea.  I love sitting on set and chatting with the assistant directors during those rare moments of calm.

But the film wrapped and now here I am, back to waiting.  This time for it to release.  This Strike is an important step in the evolution of the Indian Film Industry.  I know that.  Really.  We need to come to a better business model on how films are made and distributed in this country.  We cannot continue to function in this nepotistic, chamchagiri-filled system.  Change is important.

I’m just hoping change happens soon.  Because as much work as I’m doing now after “Sikandar” and I’ve been blessed with more than my share.  My dream hasn’t become a reality until that first audience member pays for their ticket and sits down in that seat next to someone they care about with a big bucket of popcorn and the lights dim and the projector beams dance with the dust motes all the way to the screen and paste my mug there.  I don’t know whether people will like me or think me the worst thing to hit the screen in Goddess knows how long.

But the truth is - I don’t care.  I made it here.  And no one can take that from me.

I hope who ever’s reading this gets a chance to watch “Sikandar” in theatres real soon.  It’s a small film but a good film, with a lot of heart.

Watch it!  And let me know what you thought.  Even if it’s the digital version of a tomato in the face!

Over the last, almost two weeks, I’ve seen the same headline on the News tab I keep on my homepage - “Abhi-Ash not moving out.”  Then it switches to say that they are moving back, then back to not.  Or which lucky man is getting naughty with Priyanka Chopra.  First it’s one then the other then yet another.

I don’t give a rat’s heiny whether they are moving out or not.  I don’t care whether their house is complete or not or where it’s located.  I do not care whether they hold bacchanals in their home that put Caligula to shame.  I don’t care!!!!!  Do any of you?  Leave these people’s private lives private.

Tell us how the economy is affecting the delayed talks between the multiplex owners and the producers.  Tell us how the psychology of greed and control are affecting the way in which movies are being made and released these days.  Tell us how the recent atmosphere of over-inflated production costs, outrageous actor fees, have resulted in those of us that make and act in better, smaller, more intelligent films are being forced to put our lives on perpetual hold whilst these fat cats whisk about in their foreign cars in between giving each other a finger and a fuck off.  That’s Entertainment News.

I tire of this celebrity-centric culture of ours, where journalists don’t even bother checking facts or verifying sources. A culture where many of us would rather read through the Bombay Times than the actual newspaper.  Where journalists basically just write whatever they want.  This country despite all the celebrity campaigners and their over-hyped public service announcements had some of the lowest voter turn-out this year in many places including around Bombay.  That shows how much impact celebrities have on issues that really matter.

Tell me more about why Mamooty was denied a visa into the U.S.A.  That’s news.  That’s a real indication of how xenophobic and closed the borders of America (a country I spent nearly eight happy years in) are becoming.

But saying all this isn’t going to magically turn our news providers into better, more sincere and professional services.  This is just my way of exhaling my morning paper irritations out into the ether.

Now I feel good.  Time for a cup of green tea and a nice cold shower.

We knew where we wanted to be come the first rays of dawn.  But we tarried a while, enjoying the slow, spiralling dance towards one another.

It began with coffee.  Stale, over-creamed, under roasted coffee in a cafe where everybody around us held nothing but empty hope and dirty cups in their hands.  I didn’t even know how she liked her coffee.  But I knew I wanted to know.  I wanted to know down to the amount of time she likes to set it aside to brew and steam and fill her with the promise of its aroma.  I watched her order.  The slow bloom of her smile as she met the waitress’ eyes, the slight shift in her shoulders when she turned back towards me.  The widening of her smile and how she leaned across to play with the napkin on my side of the table, her fingers tracing patterns around my left hand.

She spoke of things in a way that made them instantly sensual and vibrant.  The way she described this city of hers that I was new to.  The music in her car and how each song was picked so that even traffic couldn’t shake loose her happiness.  She laughed, and it was a sound that echoed and reverberated in the deepest, quietest parts of me.  It seemed to reach across and demand an answer from my throat, like a flamenco dancer in her last pose, drinking in her well-deserved applause.

Our coffee came and we sipped.  I watched her ask for sugar-free sweetener.  I watched her open it precisely with her artist’s fingers and empty it into her cup.  Watched her stir it in a smooth, metered stroke.  Then she spied me watching and that smile came out again, and that shrug, and she winked and licked the spoon.

I didn’t care my coffee tasted like New York tap water drunk from an old coffee can.  I was here, across from her, and the city didn’t seem uncaring.  At least for tonight.  At least until the sun came up and banished us, us the poets of the nighttime sky.

It begins when the wind turns,

And the crickets and the cicadas open,

their long talks on the business of the day now past.

It begins when the wind sighs and sheds its heat

And wraps a cool blouse around its shoulders,

and curls up next to me across the lawn.

We watch the bats chase away the birds

as the crickets talk about it all.

The lake seems to almost smile then,

Just before the Sun dives into its arms,

Like a wayward son running home to Ma.

The jasmine opens it’s doors, and the figs,

and the champa begin their ever-shy courtship.

I am thinking of all that I have become,

And all that I wish to be.

And here, under these summer stars,

And their quiet sussurating song,

Neither fill me with shame.

I wake to walk back, with the wind

Laughing beside me,

All the way, all the way home.

She came into my life on a Tuesday.  I remember it was a Tuesday because that was the day I went to the cemetery every week.  It had been four years since my wife died, on a Tuesday.  But that’s another story for another time, and not before you get some Glenfiddich in me.

So that Tuesday.  I had been working a couple of infidelity cases.  Nothing special there.  Half my jobs were infidelity cases.  Always struck me as strange that someone would hire a complete stranger to find out the darkest truths about the person they were supposed to love most.  That morning I got into the office from an all-night stakeout in Juhu, waiting for the dumb bastard to come out so I could get a time-stamped photograph of him leaving another woman’s building at four in the morning.  He left at six.  Must have been quite a woman up there.

Headed home to shit shower and shave.  I had barely started to shave when the doorbell rang.  Thinking it must be the maid, I went out to open the door shirtless and with a Santa Claus shaving foam beard on my face.

There she stood.

I could say she looked like a goddess, but with luscious curves and a smile that said “I never wear panties”, but she didn’t.  The left side of her face was swollen and ugly with bruises, as were her wrists and upper arms.  The only working light in my landing despite years of complaining was the single bulb above Gupta’s flat down the corridor.  And she stood with her arms wrapped around herself like a shawl, that meagre illumination seemed to recoil from the horror of her face.

“Mr. Karan Singh?” she whispered.

My gut clenched with that icy sick feeling.  The one that told me that this was something I didn’t want any piece of.   The kind of feeling I only used to get back when I was a cop, and I stumbled into something darker than the usual horrors of the job.  I wanted to slam the door in her face and shave the rest of my face, the warm water washing the sight of her out of my day.  I didn’t need this.  I really didn’t need this.

But her lip trembled in the silence and she hugged herself a little tighter.  I sighed and opened the door to let her in.