Lost Dream

I have lost my dream
Can you find it for me...
I had nurtured it for a long time
It was somewhere in my eye
Today it fell down ...
It did not shatter because there was no noise...
perhaps it is under that pillow
Or must have got lost in the bin of yesterdays refuse...
just lift up that shoe maybe it is under its sole.. W
what did you say?
Dreams don't get lost?
They just disappear when you open your eyes?
But you don't understand I was dreaming with my eyes open...
Like our entire nation is ...

Confession (Continued)

After I finished writing the script I tried to get in touch with an actress who has an image of being intelligent and a supporter of good cinema. I was told that I should get in touch with her secretary. No, no, she did not want to read the script. Her secretary will take care of everything. The secretary is a Punjabi gentleman with a thick Punjabi accent. I introduced myself. My friend who had accompanied me mentioned my fathers’ name. The secretary knew him. Well, I thought to myself half my problems are over. He knew my father, he knows my pedigree. However my happiness turned to wide eyed surprise by the time the conversation with the secretary got over.

The conversation went like this:

Secretary: “ Ye sacript aap ne likha hai?”

Me: “Haan…”

Secretary: “Achcha ye batao is film mein romance hai?’ (There was special emphasis and drag on the word ‘Hai’)

Me: “Romance hai ..lekin matured romance hai…ek pachas saal ka aadmi hai aur tees saal ki aurat hai..”

Secretary: “Is film mein gaane hai?”

Me: “ Gaane honge lekin background mein”.

Secretary: “ Aaap ki film mein outdoor hai?”

Me: “Outdoor to bahut hai…”

Secretary: “Kahan?’

Me: “ Bambai mein”

Secretary: “ Bambai naiji main to switzerland, Australia ke outdoor ki baat kar raha tha..”

Me: “ Oh….”

Secretary: “Aap ki film mein western outfits hain?”

Me: “ Heroine saadi aur blouse…”

Secretary: “ Main na ji aap ko dark mein nahin rakna chata ..agar aap ki film mein ye sab nahin hai to phir heroineji aap ki film mein kaam nahin karengi”.

I looked at him surprised.

When I walked back to my car I burst out laughing. It was the turn of my friend to look at me surprised.

Cofession

I have not written anything for the blog in last few months because I was busy writing the script of the film that I want to direct. The script has been handed over to an actor-if he reads it and if he likes it then I will move ahead and finalise the other details. You must have noticed that I have written 'if he reads it'- well over here some of the actors read the script if it is backed by a well known production house or a powerful producer. My script does not have anyone backing it at the moment. If at all I start the production it will be with my money. In fact the funniest story that I have heard is of Akshay Kumar willing to do the disastarous 'Chandni Chowk To China' by just looking at the poster of the film! Most of the time the actors dont' have the time, the patience or the intelligence to read a script. They are surrounded by people who constanly give them an ego massage. So much so that they are always on 'cloud nine'. The only person I have met who has his feet on the ground is Aamir- and Aamir certainly knows a good script from a bad one. Who would have backed a preditable 'Lagaan' or a Heroineless 'Taare Zameen Pe'? Except Aamir nobody would have.

About a year back the corporate houses had got in to the film business in a big way. In fact they also pretended that they were looking at fresh ideas and scripts. When the fact was that behind the doors they were only 'signing' the big names. These 'big names' took the corporate houses for a jolly good ride. Most of them are still applying balm to their burnt fingers.One of my friend, a filmmaker who has already made his debut film, played a smart trick on a corporate house. Before that let me tell you what these coporate 'set ups' were like. The corporate 'set ups' had script readers. These were highly paid people who read the scripts that were summitted. Believe me these script readers cannot communicate in proper English or Hindi. Anyway above the script readers were the 'experts' from the movie industry -again very highly paid writers that had written hit films in the past. That they were now retired and unwanted by the movie industry is another matter. My friend downloaded a script from the net of a super hit hollywood film. He changed the names of the characters and submitted the same to this coporate house. The corporate house rejected the script -the reason was that the script was not up to the mark! In another instance he just photocopied the first fifteen pages of a script a number of times put them together in script form and gave it to the corporate house. The reply that he got after a few months was hilarious. The corporate house wrote that his script was good however they would be unable to produce it as they were looking at a different genre. In fact they urged him to submit another script in that genre!

The Creative Brief- By Danish Khan

The other day I was at a meeting at an advertising agency for the production of an advertising film. The creative director looked me up an down derisively. I am sure he was thinking "this guy may be a film maker but he is definitely not creative".
When I got back home I was sure I had lost the film. I sat down all by myself with an ochre light bulb as my companion. The only thing playing on my mind was 'I am not creative...I am not creative'. I tossed and turned but I could not sleep..because I was not CREATIVE! I was about to cry when sleep overtook me. I do not know when the creative bug bit me. When I got up I was surprised my room had changed..it had more color..there were more books...more magazines..more 'black books'...more CDS with reference films on them and expensive Havana cigars strewn all around! I stretched and yawned and ran my hand over my face. Overnight I had grown a long beard! I ran to the mirror to look at myself. There I was ! But was that really me!!My beard had grown, my hair had grown and what was that shining in my earlobe? A diamond stud? I screamed, I shouted, I danced around. I wanted everyone to know I had become CREATIVE!!!
Armed with creative confidence with a cigar clenched between my teeth, I went back to the agency. I thought perhaps with my new found 'visible creative references' I might be able to swing the deal.Everyone right from the peon to the despatch boy to the creative director looked at me with pitiful eyes. I was confused. The creative director looked me up and down scorfully, and told me "Don't be so desperate to be creative. I can see that you are still living in the past. You know the the rules of creativity change everyday? Yesterday's Ghalib is today's Gulzar. Today you can be truly creative if you get your picture printed in the nude. In fact if you are creative you should have nothing to hide. But as I told you earlier the rules change everyday...by the time you get your picture in the nude there might be something else like..like..." I quickly added "...fornication..". The creative director jumped out of his seat and started shouting , everyone in the agency could hear him "..yes..fornication..fornication...Yes! Yes!My agency will be there in all the newspapers, magazines..my agency will win all the awards....imagine the free publicity we will get..In fact before we make a presentation we will show an audio visual with all of us fornicating..could you shoot us fornicating? Man you are a genius..you are truly creative!" The cigar just didn't taste right. I was about to throw it away in the dustbin, but I stopped short. Mybe I could put it to better use......

Outside The Furnace- By Aziz Qaisi

Every day, she threw her supple arms,
soft and silken thighs,
young and rounded breasts,
rosy lips and cheeks,
glossy black hair,
her every limb
into the burning furnace.
A thick liquid, gold and silver colored,
set in the hot and cold forms of her breaths,
and then became her body.

One night when she threw her body
into the burning furnace,
the gold and silver would not set,
in the hot and cold forms of her breaths,
first her lips,
and then her cheeks,
and then her arms were sundered,
her hair was scorched,
breasts consumed, waist seared,
thighs parched;
Then the heavy liquid, turning in to jagged gold nuggets,
sank in to her bones until she died.
But her eyes still live,
They say to me:
You also throw the steel of your body,
the glass of your heart,
the same in to the furnace.
Look, everyday and night and every moment,
You, too, are dying, just like me.
Everyone is dying, just like me.
But, take this warning
And save your eyes.

( Note: This poem has been published in some of the most prestigious literary magazines of the world in various languages including English. The original poem is in Urdu)

The Grip Of Fear-By Danish Khan

It is a sunday. I have been waiting endlessly , in between numerous cups of tea and cigarettes, sunday newspaper and short stories for the rain to abate. I hate the rain. It makes the frog croak so badly. Folding up my jeans and throwing away my chappals to the sea I feel like running amuck, to feel the rain water splashing up my ankle and the rain beating down fiercely on my face. I never do it . I may fall sick.

It is eleven at night. The rain relents. Should I or should I not go for a walk? I need my stock of cigarettes for the night. I go for a walk pulling up my jeans, armed with an umbrella. The wind is with me. It is delightfully cold. It pushes me, goads me and urges me to towards the small shop at the street corner. It whips around the edges of the building with a sharp cry. It whistles past the leaves of the coconut palms, and they bend obligingly. The palm leaves have just had a marvellous bath and large drops of water shrugged off by them fall on my head.

I buy the cigarettes. I turn around. The rain washed street reflects the light of the street lamps.I light a cigarette. It warms me.I start walking towards home. Now the wind rushes past my face. It tries constantly to push me back.Walking is not easy anymore. It has become an effort. The street lamps suddenly go off. Power failure!

Oh! What a night! Starless, cold and windy.
I feel something strange is going to happen, something unusual. A strange kind of fear seems to take hold of me. It does not make my teeth chatter, but it makes me breathe faster. I wish for a car to pass by or a truck or a beggar or a cat to cross my path, anything! Anything to dispel this loneliness. I want to run. The wind is against me.

Wait! What is that which shines like dulled steel in the darkness? Is it a weapon? Who is holding it? Right at the corner of the street shielded by the building with just the steel sticking out? Is it somebody taking refuge from the rain? But it is not raining anymore. I stand rooted to the spot, waiting for a move. Surely, he has seen me. Where have the police disappeared? I want to shout but I cannot. What does he want? My watch? It is expensive. I do not have much money. Thank God! I have my umbrella with me. I will knock him down with it.

I deal a blow and rush past him with celerity. What is this sound of steel hitting the ground.? I look over my shoulder. I expect him to come after me. But he doesn't. I retrace my steps. Closer, closer. Is it a trick? I have my umbrella with me. A few more steps. I peer. The figure is huddled as though out of exhaustion. Such an unlikely posture for someone who wants to attack and rob me. Surprised, I go very close.

Oh God! It is a woman! Her eyes without reproach or pain are staring at me. Her threadbare saree is hardly enough to cover her emaciated body. I dig in to my pockets. I press in to her hands whatever I have . She is still staring. The lights have come on. Her eyes are almost listless. I am scared. I walk a few steps away from her, accidently hitting the bowl. What a clatter it makes! I break in to a run. The chappals slip away. I am not bothered. It has started raining.

Catharsis- by Danish Khan

Darkness slowly devours the evening. From the folds of the dark clouds lightning shines without its audible threat. The faces half lit by it look like black and white pictures. Some are hurrying home, some amble aimlessly, some have nowhere to go. The dogs whine confusedly and are running amok. The waves swell their chest and hammer at my feet where I stand rooted. Memories steal upon me like the sudden burst of wind
Each pompous wave takes away the sand from beneath my feet and makes me sink more. I look heavenwards. Now those dark clouds are rushing towards me. The wind is blowing with a certain urgency as though it wants to subjugate those tall stately palm trees. The strong wind billows in to my clothes and blows them out. It leaves a cool sensation on my skin. I am alive!
The waves have become more arrogant now. They beat against my chest violently. The clouds have swallowed up the horizon. The lightning tears through the clouds with deafening crackle. I look back over my shoulders. I can see my footprints in the sand. I pull my feet away from the holes that the waves had relentlessly dug under my feet. Goaded by the wind I rush towards my footprints in the sand . I want to retrace them before the rains wash them away. I only manage to smudge them. Frustrated I make a deep, deep trail through them.
The rain splashes on my face and flattens my hair. Now there is a steady stream. My clothes stick to my body as though they are scared of losing me. The raindrops are falling in a definite rhythm. The whistle of the wind is like the high note of a flute. The tall stately palm trees are dancing in the rain. Water has collected in the trail that I had made. I splash the water with my foot. It jumps up joyously! I splash it again with my other foot. The rains have washed every trace of my footprints. But through the trail that I had made in the sand a small stream has started flowing.