Sunscreen.

Pujo.

2010-10-25T13:32:00.009+05:30

2010-10-21T19:33:00.001+05:30

Shoot.

2010-10-21T19:28:00.002+05:30

Arri SR2

2010-10-21T19:27:00.002+05:30

2010-10-21T19:25:00.002+05:30

2010-10-21T19:25:00.001+05:30

2010-10-21T19:23:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T19:22:00.001+05:30

2010-10-21T19:21:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T19:20:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T19:14:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T19:11:00.002+05:30

Om Shanti Om

2010-10-21T19:04:00.004+05:30

Parathewallih Gulli.

2010-10-21T19:01:00.002+05:30

2010-10-21T18:57:00.001+05:30

2010-10-21T18:49:00.002+05:30

Happy :)

2010-10-21T18:48:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T18:47:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T18:35:00.001+05:30

2010-10-21T18:30:00.002+05:30

"God is dead, and we have killed him, you and I !" - Nietzsche.

I gaat thaa Pawaaarr!

2010-10-21T18:27:00.001+05:30

Shaggy, likes to show off sometimes.

Hey Bhagwan!

2010-10-21T18:16:00.003+05:30

Where stars dwell above gods.

Paagal.

2010-10-21T18:15:00.000+05:30

Laal (Red)

2010-10-21T18:14:00.000+05:30

2010-10-21T17:48:00.006+05:30

Nisar Ahmed Bharti is one of the very few alive from an era when film banners used to be handpainted. The man knows his art like a child knows his play. Like many others, he has adapted to photography. Now an old man and almost forgotten, Bharti teaches at Triveni, New Delhi.

Violet.

2010-10-21T17:47:00.003+05:30

Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam.

2010-10-21T17:45:00.002+05:30

Mahesh no longer possesses this length of hair. He cut it off. And the night he did it, he wept like a child.

Press.

2010-10-21T17:24:00.012+05:30

Tucked away on a deserted by-lane of Daryaganj (Old Dilli), rests this ancient press. Passed on from generation to generation, hand to hand and family to other families now about to shut down, it weaves a tale of oil, grease and karma.

Delhi Haat, New Delhi

2010-10-21T17:06:00.006+05:30

Bailamos?

2009-04-07T20:57:00.002+05:30

I suddenly find Bailamos neatly stacked away in an ancient playlist, and I play the song, and the moment I do so I go trippin’ back to my pathetic and absolutely lousy adolescent years. Days when I was so smitten by a very sweaty mole on face hot and an absolute bomb(shell) they named Enrique Iglesias. My oh my, I remember I had wet dreams about him (ooh la la). Come on, like you were a saint.

I forgot what it felt like. To have a crush on a (sexy-hot-pants-wearing-loverboy-looking) latino pop singer. His voice gasping in orgasmic short breaths… and him always chasing after these equally hot (if not hotter) and sweaty latino women. The dash of guitar chords at the start of the song. The bittersweet scent of the song. And Enrique Iglesias – so near (stereo tape, not yet mp3-ised) yet so out of reach.

I remember going to Music World (or was it Planet M? fuck it who cares) to search for the tape at Park Street because Bonanza, my friendly neighbourhood music store had run out of stock(!).

Stuff of dreams.

Those were my simple days.

Sigh.

Sunday, was.

2008-07-20T18:22:00.002+05:30

Sunday used to be free world. The death of homework, milk and rules. The beginning of hope.

Sunday was starting late, lemon tea and Britannia gooday. Sunday was luchi and alurdom and Dulu's jilipi.

Sunday was Mahabharat (and subsequently Mowgli) at 10a.m. The end of morning too soon.

Sunday was the chicken curry, hot and ready with rice.

Sunday were the way Ma smelt, toil and sweat all mingling to concoct a smile. Sunday was garlic from kitchen, the constant sound of running water in the sink – all reaching here in my empty room, as a pledge for more hopeful things to come.

Sunday was Baba buried in newspapers, Baba never at home, Baba with the carwash or Baba in the living room adda.

Sunday was Bamonmashi sprawled on the mattress tapping dreamily to Pet Sounds, burping out the chicken shit, and refusing to let go of the 60’s.

Sunday was Denna out with her boyfriend in the evening, the 6 foot reticent cad that she has been married to for 7 years now.

Sunday was Monday blues, the panic of another new week.

Sunday, for me, was waiting the whole week for it.

And now, that Sunday has died, I feel lost.

The 19th of feb, 2008

2008-06-28T18:26:00.005+05:30

During my first days in Delhi, when I was looking for a place to stay, before I’d got the hostel, I remember I'd lived those days with great intensity. Arno's words, to be strong to be straight up at the face of difficulties, I'd remembered them, what he had said, what he did when he'd faced the prospect of living alone, I’d remembered those. I remember them, and I remember living every moment intensely, insanely so. New city, new place, new people.

Hell.

I'd found a temporary arrangement, this place in Juleina, near college, which smelt like rotten rice all thorough, there was water leaking from the roof down the 3rd floor staircase (I lived in the 2nd floor, but the food was served on the terrace, so had to go past the leak), rooms were huge and dirty, as in it was a mess, if you know what I mean. It was aweful and I distinctly remember the smell of rotting rice, hell, I feel as though I can still smell it. The smell has become one of those things that will forever remain on my mind like slow drawn graphitti.

And I remember one sunday afternoon, no, it was evening, I went to this cyber cafe close by. I remember it was the the 5th of august, and in that Sunday evening, some 4pm-ish, I opened my e-mail account, found almost 50 mails, from friends mostly.

As I checked my mail, I remember a slow hysteria coming over me. I was replying to Arno, and mailing Am, Ank, Ahi, Sag, and others and it was a goddamned hysteria I was overcome with, and I thought, I got no decent place to stay, I probably wasnt getting the hostel anytime soon (I did get it, of course, some 2 months later, it went according to the merit list. No, I wasn’t the last one in the list), I'd had a shitty lunch in someone else's plate, and I was hysteric. Was I weak? No. Instead I was trying to be extra strong I think, to match up to what Arno had pictured for me, as he had probably pictured for himself and had lived it too.

Today I found a receipt of my first advance to the landlord and the first thing that I remembered was that Mrs. Pathak, wife to the landlord had jumped off the terrace and had killed herself. This happened after I had left the place, of course. I don’t remember the exact date but T., a roomate there who is also my classmate at MCRC and like me hadnt got the hostel, yet, had said it happened one afternoon. T., a reticent female eternally clad in a salwar kameez, said she was quite upset by all of this. Apparantly there was also a police investigation she and others living there had to face.

Thing is, I was surprised - no, let me correct myself, I was shocked - that Mrs. Pathak killed herself at all. You hear these things happen to other people, you read them in the newspapers, and don’t remember them. I remember her like you remember faces you see everyday, skirting through life without much knowing them and their conditions. I didn’t care before, of course, not cruelly but generally disinterested. But there she was perhaps head smashed body against some stone on the pavement, now perhaps only framed in a picture. I can tell she wasnt insane, at least she was sane enough to keep the fruits of all those girls who's ask her to keep them in her refrigerator. Impersonal, distant, but well, professional I guess. I try to imagine Mr. Pathak's face when he saw his dead wife.

Later on I heard that he had a drinking problem, which I didnt know of earlier, when I was living there (lived there for exactly four days. Couldn’t stand the stink). And I heard that probably Mrs. P wasnt exactly enthusiastic about it. That’s interesting, because the bugger said he taught yoga in his free time. Poor children of hers. They too, perhaps, skirt through life without much knowing or reconciling to the things they have lost. Oh demons.

In this one year, I havent ever seen Mr. Pathak or his kids. T, my classmate, had left the place long back.

The Begining

2008-06-28T16:07:00.006+05:30

...

- And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin.. -