Saving me with a book

Dear Natalie Goldberg,


I will never forget how I met you at that cramped Cyber Cafe in Aligang, near the Gulacheen Temple in that graceful city of Lucknow where I lived when I was 16. There shuttling on the internet between online romances, smart quotes, and Post graduate courses( to find a respectable career) I found that online version of Writing Down the Bones. I lived with it many days before I felt a sense that couldn't live without a Hard Copy of that stuff(It really was like dope!). It became my Bible and you became the woman who walked in front of me telling me just how real women walked.


There were so few ideals then for a girl of my size growing up in a city without any considerable distractions of male attention. I held on to you like nothing else would save me. And nothing else did. Not the degrees I took. Not the heady work I did. Nor the Company of Television Heroes I was so enamored by. Barkha Dutt, Rajdeep Sardesai, Sankarshan Thakur, Tarun Tejpal. All of them have lost that slickness in life.Why even real people that I fell in love with did nothing to save me. They all crumbled right in front of my eyes.


In the agony of stony places. In the glint of adoring eyes. In the ennui that lasted and costed me a considerable amount of life...You stayed in my bones. Keeping me strong. I always knew something was gonna grow from it. This writing practice that got into my blood stream gave me the ceremony to mourn my losses. The color to paint blazing colors from the sallow tastes on my tongue. The rhythm that played in my ribs when there were no dances I was dying for. 

Katagiri Roshi The teacher who taught you to watch your monkey mind came to me through you Natalie. I know that man, his straight back, his coldness and wisdom and his smile. I met him on a lot of your pages. I am afraid I fell in love with him too. And I realized how he was just supposed to be a teacher and not a alive presence. I never knew his smell though.( And I know why you kept it from me!) I know all the hamburgers you ate and all the houses you lived in. Your father and your Mom. Your sister and your car. Your divorce too. How did you transcend so many blocks of distance/age/country/culture to hold my attention( AND REVERENCE!!!!) for such a long period of time. Surely you too will pass from my life, wont you?


When I read you I feel I have a life that can be made something of too. You had fallen where I had fallen and you got up looking respectable. I too would. There were no children who had made your existence more profound than mine. There was no soul mate you had met and I had missed out on meeting because of my dumbness. There was no  home where people waited for you, there were no friends which you had which were warmer than mine. We are so same same. Teacher Guru. Mad Women Mad women. Mad women making sense of the nonsense!


You live so far away in Santa Fe in New Mexico. I dont even know where it is! How much does it cost to reach there? How much to just deliver a parcel? Would you mind if I land up outside your door one day? I'll get purple flowers. Just to mark my gratitude. And when those flowers sit on your writing desk..Will you know what you have given to me?

Love and Gratitude
Pearl

PS- I am so proud of myself I haven't married the fly! :)

All that passes from my hands..

Dear Writing Gods,

I wish I could give the ligthning and thunder of a new life to my writing. But when I sit down on the floor with my laptop , mosquitos bite into my blood my unwaxed skin itches with dryness. I cant create magic. I had assumed that writing would open new worlds but this writing only takes me deeper and deeper into the same old stories. I keep returning to the past. Where is the new sparkling life I was promised? Instead of letting go I turn to clasp tighter!

I go back to my old birthdays, the times candles could be placed on a half kg cake. The gifts that I wanted to get but never got. The friends that I wished would come. But never came.
To the warm smiles of my friends who stood with the their (now) exes. They looked so good together! Where did the magic disappear between them.
The flowering trees which shouted about the changing season. I only have pictures of them on my web albums now.
The songs I loved hearing. They still keep lilting in the past. The sweet songs of love (sic) I will never hear them anymore but they sounded so sweet then!
Oh and the rivers I would run to purge myself of the madness. The madness keeps returning.

Maybe it happens because of the time locks that I put to each magical moment. The times when the moment was so precious that I would close my eyes and put a psychic lock. Click! Please dont pass me by. Stay! Grow!
And they grow. In the past and in my writing. Like remember the first time I was flying to Pune.. I closed my fists so hard and pushed and shoved god! This should happen more often! I keep going back to that flight now. With the appetising taste of a new city and new people. I have no buisness left in Pune anymore. And yet every now and then I am back into that Air India flight. 18 years. Dressed in blue jeans and white top. 15 kgs overweight. Happy to be on an aeroplane alone to say a big hello to a new world. Those people that I didnt meet come back to haunt me.
The time I stood squinting at the statue of Ahilya Bai Holkar at the Maheshwar fort. The pandits were rolling 5000 shivlings of earth to be given out to Narmada. She started worshipping shiva after her husband died. She was the most compassionate ruler the whole of Malwa had seen. I felt the rigor mortis of the dead husband descending into my system. All of this woman's glory started with the deaths of men around her. My guess is she never let them die. Held on too tightly ! I stared at the statue of this tall gangly woman dressed in white. Sometimes stones stare back. I stapled that stare into myself. I was going to use this. This was no ordinary meeting of women. I had said Hi! to a woman who had who had changed the shape of walls by the iron in her will. I could certainly use this high of meeting her somewhere in my life. She came with me in memory since that day. She is a big person to carry around! But I have lugged her around and spoken to her on the long way from my home to office. It isnt a long way from Ghaziabad to Gurgaon. I couldnt ever finish one conversation with her about how much I liked doing what I was doing! She smiled at me when I told her all that..I hated people who thought it was a waste of time to travel those two points. She didnt come out to talk to me on any other route!
Its all passed me by now. It lives more ferociously than ever before.

Love
PS

Learning to lech at women.

I started this learning in a very cross state. I had to give up believing that women were also human beings (like children and men) Its a learning that happened because of an accident that paralyzed me for roughly three years. I was on bed with plasters and I could only see the world through another pair of eyes.(a particular man's eyes) I don't know if I am grateful for this learning. It has given me shameless eyes that zoom into a extreme close up as soon as a woman comes in the visibility range. A lot of my friends tell me that they get embarrassed by this leching. I try to explain that I am not leching for myself. I do it to perfect my understanding of the Maletric system of judging women.

So this man I learned from looked at women everywhere and kept imparting his judgments(maletric offcourse!). At traffic lights, in the plane aisles, at the hotel lobbies, in his office, in his veranda, in the studio. I dont know if the women who passed his examinations did better in life than the ones who flunked it completly. I however know that he was nicer to the ones who scored high on this mailtric system! He gave them better chances, praised them more often and yes he engaged with the hi scorers.I don't know if I failed or passed. I have had to work terribly hard to get over my preoccupation of scoring at (his/our) this test. Every point that I losed broke my heart. And offcourse I lost more points than I could have let go off!

I write this because I dont much like the way I look at women these days. I want to go back to the times when pretty women were just pretty women and not a pair of boobs competing against another!The old way of seeing them was so much more comfortable.But this judging is a trait that came from my old company. It kind of started gaining presence in me. After all it was a well defined universal system of measuring desirability of women.Besides it was goddamn empowering to just look at the boobs and never have to hear and engage with these other human beings!

So I started by copying that Stare ## Scanning 123........Too old*. Too Fat* Big boobs* small boobs* oh wow boobs* Great body* Dumb Fuck* Easy fuck* Rich bitch* Smart Bitch* Sweet girl* Powerful bitch*  Put her in a sack and hand it to me bitch*. Sweet talk kind*  Sad kind*  Eager kind*  Enthusiastic type* Married* Divorced*  With kids* deserves attension*  Ignore*  Vulnerable* Needy* Desperate!* Beautiful*  Ugly* Looked pretteir when she was slimmer*

It seeped into one. Offcourse women werent exactly human beings(They had two dangling boobs, legs and eyes and lips!) The whole (male) Universe had these gradings.The 'Maletrick system'. So the first rule was to figure out women. It wasnt an easy thing to learn. One flinched. A human being of whatever age was being sliced into a woman(boobs legs eyes and lips) And their stories always began with their boobs.(or whatever else flashed first in front of those eyes. mostly it was boobs)

So I remeber the first time those eyes grew warm at a yellow nylon shirt clad dumb bengali chic(yes there are! such ones too!) My eyes saw a being fumbling for words,with no hold on the language,  making silly arguments, pouting too much at lips and chest. Then the alter eyes took over- Great figure, 5feet 6 inches tall. Maroon lipstick. cheap hire. Interseting! Get her on.

That dusky thin girl with a dour smile. The alter eyes saw nothing. Drooping boobs, too much reticence, too much intelligence! Sorry we are closed!

The pretty girl with crooked teeth who smiled everytime she didnt catch sense? Yeah! The alter eyes remeber her. She wore nice transparent white tops and smiled coyly everytime looked at. Now that is innocence!

That intelligent girl with braces?( Hmm nice but you see wouldnt think of kissing her right so 5 marks down!)

That hardworking woman who stayed up the nights with an ill child? (It didnt exactly add to her ageing skin or make her a pleasant presence no?)

The whorish tall one who smelled of hairdye all the time?(Well she was good to sit beside on the sofa you know but she spoke so much that she could have nibbled away one's ear!)

The big boobed dumb one.( Big boobs can get tiring beyond a point!)

So I got on the same page with that man. I have his eyes in me now! It destroyed my eyesight. I wear big glasses now. I have  learnt forever the language of grading women. It has left me with a very low opinion of myself( there are always more luscious boobs and pouting lips walking around on longer legs!) But I can do it to other women, what those eyes did to me!

Death on the road

Last night I saw a strange dream. That the world is actually ending in 2012. I am walking around communes and communities and socialise with kind strangers who dont mean a thing to me. We all travel in strange local trains that look like a cross between the Mumbai local trains and metros. Each one of us has a commuting anxiety. We are all desparate to shrink the city and reach our destination faster.
They are all talking about how the world is ending in one or two days now that 2012 is here. I get down the train and try walking the blocks. There are dead fishes and blood floating on the water everywhere and the road gets submerged in water which has dead fishes floating around. I jump on to remaining block of land(most of it has disappered under water!) and I fade to black in this 1st siren of devastation.
Too anxious about not knowing whether these are my last days on life as I knew it so far I am tensed about what to do to make the most of it. I dont have any freinds that I could easily meet in this fury. I strangely dont rememeber my family at all.
There is a siren that blasts my head with the suggestions that maybe I could call him just this once now! It should be allowed! the world is ending we are all going to die~surely its OK if I call him once for this last time. Because it is going to be the last for sure..I pick up the phone and dont dial: What if the world doesnt end? It will be another shameful outburst of emotion. Calling him can only be justified if the earth is falling apart. I cant take the shame of calling him against his wishes another time! Even though the world may be ending. Maybe I really want to die without calling him. Or maybe I dont have the time in this running to call him!
I decide to watch a film. The most widely accepted valid indulgence. I hope the film touches my heart and makes the last few moments worth it for I am too handicapped to deal with humans around me.I am becoming happy about getting to give up. I cant take this tension anymore. Lets Die I say if the time has come.
I walk out of the film and see Shohini, Juhi and Chitragandha Singh (the dusky heroine)wrapped in a red shawl looking gorgeous. They seem to be keeping their cool well. I say Goodbye and again start walking that tough road to commute home. Who knows I might finally communaly meet death today.

Sand Wind and Stars~

Dear Dadaji,

When I look at your picture I am amazed at how many parts of you have left around us like the sand wind and the stars. Your hands that live in Papa’s hands, Your gentle presence that Papa exudes just the way you did, sitting hours in the winter sun.

I don’t remember your passing away bringing up any sadness in my 5 year old heart.  The stench of urine that coming from your room cut me off from you. I was so scared to enter then. You were growing old and I was growing young. I was getting the power to make choices to be with people or to avoid them. I would avoid you for days and days when you would call for me. I felt I could altogether avoid the unnecessary involvement with death disease and decay (Although not so consciously!) Sometimes when I could muster enough good sense to enter your room which had Papa’s tools hanging on the walls you would lovingly tell me broken stories. Some stories that I already remembered, some I recognized to be warped some completely drones of your sound breaking.

On clear days you would come out of your room and take a walk. And I remember your lively long stepped walk. You were such a tall man. It was difficult to think that someone so well formed could be falling apart in body.

Its strange I never saw you intensly alive. You were always my old dadaji to me. The most electric I have seen you were in your stories of travels across the world. Your days of fighting the world war in Hungary where you got lice in your hair. Your hundred stories of Raja Ram Chandra of Ayodhya who had a dutiful wife. The stories of your illiterate brothers and  your bringing them to civilization and farming in the terai of Nanital. I still read your books kept in the dingy store room in Bareilly now. Although I find it hard to imagine that you read them too. I still remember your shiny white strong teeth. They lasted you more than mine will! I remember that Tall lanky figure with a flowing white beard and didn’t quite know what kind of a man you would have made for woman around you. But I know the man you were in your bones and blood. I carry you inside me like the sand wind and stars.

Love

Seetal

Be my Calender Boy Mr Kingfisher!

Dear Mr Mallya,

As I stare uncomfortably at the Kingfisher calenders protruding out of nooks of the worktables of offices,I feel a tweaking tinge of irritation threatening to blow up into anger! Scantily dressed Barbie dollish women twining around a creepers, bathing in scanty waterfalls. All women beautifully shortchanged in this whole process(the ones being parading in the calenders,ones who start aspiring to be in these calenders, the ones who will never make it to these calenders(not to be forgetting the ones who write pieces such as on 'the calender')

This heady sense of exclusivity that money can offer, The cameras transforming
penis's into lens! the models exclusive pedigree like some sort of hybrid horses/or bitches. Your Big Idea of harnessing these natural resources in a calender!( boobs bellies and and legs of of pretty young nubile women) Everybody loves these calenders I am told so whats my problem with this kind of exclusive high art? My problem Mr Kingfisher is that I think It is a bad show! And i hate it when it gets plastered around the walls! Why should I be forced to indulge your fantasies(or of those who aspire to be like you?!)?

I am not impressed at all! Why should your constipated art take the place of honour in my terrain? Why should my opinion be held any lesser value than yours? I am the customer king Mr King of goodtimes! I buy your beer, fly your airline,and watch your channel!

My calenders ought to have a certain standard! I don't want these neo'rich babes crowding my breathing space. I like Royalty! I think you would make a very interesting calender boy! That royal ruddy shining on your skin(like burnishing gold! literally!!!) I even think if you were to bare your belly on an exotic location my fantasies may spiral up till the sky! Your smile is so sexy too. I want to see you smile at me on my table top. And those layers of flab on your shoulders never matter to anyone, they are soo big with power. Let me see you stretch for me till the two ends of the horizon just like your property. I soo like you rich stinking money body odor man! Why cant you dance naked on the beach for me(and for those other women who pay for your beer in their hard earned cash!) Lets carve out fair terms of service now! Give me a fair worth for what I pay! Dance naked for me old man I(we) will bathe you in money too, and I dont mind real life blemishes and old age!


Looking forward to some good times

(Not on your calender) woman

My favorite hell

"In the beginning there was a river. The river became a road and the road branched out to the whole world. And because the road was once a river it was always hungry."

Hungry desolate ghosts walked on it night and day...they had little memories of the the period of abundance. They just remebered their hungers and kept weeping and crying for want of things. Their hungers and broken dreams were the only real things in their lives. No one could have blamed them for their small crying selves.

Then their were the tall giants who walked on that road.

Ben Okri- The Famished Road

Lost Homes

At 26 its hard to get over lost homes.I thought not counting would make me forget them better. But every lost home takes away parts of I am not young enough to loose with so much grace. I snout pout beg beseech and curse now! For every cut that is made on to me. And yet who can shout out all the pain of loosing a home?
I miss those white walls everyday. I wonder if they miss me too.Maybe I even hate them for not missing me! They were stark the first time I saw them. Stark white with rough patches. And yet they invited one with a purpose. I entered. I didn't like it for a long time. It was a rough place just not the kind where you could get comfortable easily. Hardly the kind where you would think of settling down for a long time. But as human beings are silly, they make pets out of foxes and even start talking to walls. So I did! I started talking to walls. And the walls started talking back to me. Sometimes.
Then I thought we were frequently talking. And then one day the walls went silent.
I think I started shouting at the walls then...I was told to leave. There were some new people who had entered and they had now perhaps a new language of talking to the walls. They told me to vacate..Because the walls obviously didnt talk to me anymore. I lost my home and I lost my language.
I still talk to those white walls. I am sure they hear me...I want to know why do they change their language so frequently? I thought homes were supposed to last longer than hearts. Isnt that why people build homes?

Bare essentials at 26

a single friend with a 24hour hotline
a reader who follows one's writing through and through
a purple chunni to cover oneself when there is too much grey in the world
some sweets in the fridge
a familiar author who has written on ones present tragedy in life
a promising upcoming project at work
old cherished memories that can be brought up without embarassing anyone
the promise of seeing a loved smiling face sometime in the future.
a few good pictures of one's own face

Salt~

If it doesnt taste sweet
If it doesnt change color
If it hasnt burnt to become something else
If it doesnt loose taste after all the warm concoctions and freezing indiffrences breathed into it
If it doesnt harm the insides after swallowing
If it tastes bitter compared to other things at your table
If it still sticks to your 'full hands'
If you cant take it back once you've given it
If nobody can buy it nothing can undo it
Its salt!
The little salt that turned into an earring from your hand into mine...

Sand in my bra

Sipping chai at lonely stations
Sleeping with lights on in sickly cold railway compartments
Passing by the lights of the cities which have been home once
Wearing salt earrings to not forget what I have taken from the world
Fulfilling the promises made to random gods
Smiling at strangers kinder than you
Squinting and looking hard
Passing thunder and lightening on the way
Remembering the life I had prayed for
Living the life I have been given
The sand in my bra singing as I run...

My Hands

These hands that will last a lifetime
Skin that has absorbed memories
Big not petite as would have made them pretty
Not a bit brittle these bones inside
Clenching
Approaching
Poking rudely
These silly hands..
With lying fraud lines
Stubborn
Slow
Senile
Strong
These hands that I live with

The answers come...

Kindred reply a friend wrote...

'Heck who can answer for the Buddha. He was really wise and he would have answered all the questions that have been asked. In fact the Tripitaka has 84,000 sutras by him and my guess is that he has answered all of them and several more questions there.

Now I put this forward humbly, as a person who has tried to understand his teachings and has tried to follow the way of life he recommended, I am just putting a few thoughts here.

It must be damn cool to be enlightened and all that no?

Oh yeah from what I have heard it's damn cool and more. Forget about the fantastic abilities of being able to fly and walk on water and many such freebies which the enlightened one cautioned were of little consequence. The fact that one can live freed from the long term or even short term effects of one's past actions, in the present moment in peace seems so attractive.

Tell me how does it feel to wear red all the time? Does the red of your robe not add to the restlessness of being alive?
Well the Buddha wore saffron robes.They signified the holy life, the life of renunciation. Not what they have come to represent in our unhappy times. And as for the restlessness of being alive, the Buddha simply discovered the restfulness of being alive.

AND if you are at rest all the time? Does it not make you feel dead?
Being at rest as far as I know it, is being intensely alive. Sitting still, have you ever closed your eyes and taken your attention to your breath passing through your nostrils, to your sensations throughout your body, to your thoughts - you feel anything but dead. Of course, enlightenment, Arahantship and Buddhahood is aid to be a stage beyond this sensory realm that we know. Of course I know nothing about it. But according to Buddha's teaching, death is not the opposite of life. Death is life continuing in a state beyond the perception of normal humans. A person dying moves to another form of being. This is described in startling detail in the TIBETAN BOOK OF THE DEAD - this is more psychology than anything else. Of course psychology of an advanced order described by people - we may call them sages - who have done extraordinary inner research. Actually the Buddha was a scientist if you really consider it.

Do alive women not strum at your heartstrings with their energy? Are you menopausal?
Oh yes, alive women did strum at the Buddha's heartstrings but in a manner of great compassion. Kissa Gotami, Mahaprajapati his foster mother, his outstanding female disciples like Samadevi, Vishaka all entered states of full enlightenment. He opened the doors of religious life for women by initiating the community of Bhikkhunis - at a time in ancient India when women lived lives of subservience. He declared women capable of full enlightenment and did not consider them in any way inferior to men.

As far as having erotic inclinations, would such desires be possible for anyone who has seen the emptiness of the sensory world? One who has clearly seen the impermanence of all forms. And even we, if we are to observe the human form closely and penetratingly are we not confronted by the less than desirable contents of the body?

Do you never rue the fact that your dad was a small King and died one day?
King Suddhodhana was not a small king. Much of ancient history of that region remains unknown. Yes Buddha did know of Suddhodhana's passing. And Suddhodhana having fathered the Buddha had sown unmatched karmic seeds and his passing was as I have mentioned earlier, the continuation of his life in another form. For Buddha whose perception was developed enough to penetrate states of existence beyond our limited human realm, Suddhodhana was always alive to him. Ok ok I know I'm sounding fantastic now. But let me just say this, the Buddha clearly saw planes of existence beyond the plane in which we humans dwell. Like colours of the spectrum invisible to the human eye, but visible to dogs and animals let's say and those visible to instruments that we have created like x rays and so on. Similarly, the Buddha had trained his mind to penetrate different planes of existence. This sounds plausible to me and best of all, the Buddha actually gave clear instructions on how anyone could do the same. If we walk the path, we can have the answers. Not speculation, not arguments, not hearsay but direct experiental knowledge.

Did you father a son? Would you have been a happy man without that?
And yes he did father Rahula. And Suddhodhana told Rahula to ask his father for his inheritance and of course, Rahula's father the Buddha had renounced everything and could only give him the teaching - the path away from all suffering and sorrow. What could be a greater gift?

What does a hot jalebi taste like on a hot afternoon?
I love hot jalebis and during meditation retreats I am visited by thoughts of jalebis and ice cream and so many fantastic things. Do you know how monks eat? They have a single bowl and you pour in a spoon of Khichdi then when you are about to pour in a spoon of kheer, you stand confused, there's no separate compartment for the kheer so where does that go? The monk merely stands there holding out the bowl and you reluctantly and also maybe with some dismay or disgust, you pour the sweet kheer right on top of the steaming khichdi. After that the monk takes his bowl away and mindfully eats without disgust and without relish. This is how followers of the Buddha train to see the world, without compartments, without relish, without disgust. It's something worth experiencing. I am sharing my humble baby steps hoping to shed some light. Your questions are so beautiful and childlike. And yes the practise opens our senses, makes us kind and loving. The wet mud does smell very sweet as the sorrow of our fellow beings feels very bitter.

Its so wonderful that you think so much of Buddha. Who knows what happens after parinibbana? Can the Buddha die, into which realm has he gone, these questions can only be answered after you have yourself attained enlightenment. I don't know where Buddha is but I feel his kindness and his love. Thank you for this beautiful post. I hope my sharing has been useful.'

RG

Thousand songs my mother

I sing thousand songs everynight ma
When I sing I dont even remember that I came from you.
I sing false songs
I sing broken songs
I sing songs that shatter when the truth hits them
I sing songs for people who dont recognise me
Ma tell me, when you are lying down at night do you hear me singing far away?
Do you not like my songs anymore ma?

Of being

When you are an elephant, born an elephant,There is nothing that you can do about it!(except be an elephant!)
You can only fall in love with elephants
You cant run away from your elephant hunger.
You cant squeeze yourself to resemble a porcupine( although it has much better defence mechanisms!)
You cant lie to yourself like smaller animals.
You cant run away fast from danger and threat.
You cant help your memory(even if you remember useless details which have long ceased to be a reality or the truth)
Your truth is the elephants truth. It weights you down and you carry it gracefully.
Someday you will scramble the whole bloody world if doesnt stand up to your elephant reality( and youre more than capable of it, let no one live in any illusions!)
You are hungary on life..and you shall have your elephants share!

Invoking Brahma

The lord divine. With 100 heads...Creator!
How do you create?
Does the resistance of the earth not slow your wheel?
Does the suffering that comes in creation not bow you down?
The cold unwilling atoms of creation ...how do you thaw them?
The hundred other things crying for attention not distract you?
Does the infinite hunger of already created existence not weight down your hands?
Do you create because that's the only thing you know?
Do you create with joy?
Do you create with pressure?
Do you create the unwilling creation too? HOW?
Do you create out of a womb?
Do you complete creation?
Do you create with passion or compassion?
Do you create for happiness?
Will you come into me and create my life too?


photo courtesy - Sushmit Ghosh@http://mentalsyrup.wordpress.com/

Burning away the darkness

Do you know the name of the village where my grandmother lived?
The name of my grandfather scribbled over the iron box,along with his designation. The family that my runaway aunt married into!
The hospital I was born in..
How old was I when my younger sister was born?
What did I feel when I first took her in my arms..
If I have ever seen a baby prettier then her?
How I learnt to be responsible for her one fine day.
The story behind my and my sister's name.
The first thing my dad asked for after he had a freak accident!
What age was my dad when he discovered that he was a diabetic?
What was that one song that he and I keep listening to?
How am I like/unlike him?
Have you ever thought of burning away the darkness of this world by knowing the essential few things of your or my life?

Be very scared of me!

I have nothing to loose except my dreams!

Big Fish v/s Small Fish

Big Fish: "I have been there done that! I came before you!"
Small Fish: "I came today..but I am gonne be there where you are one day!"
Big Fish: "I am very important"
Small Fish: "I know...I even liked you perhaps because of that"
Big Fish: "I do important things..I dont have time to waste on you and your faults"
Small Fish: "Its gonna take sometime for me to learn...I dont know if I can help that...but thats how you started..didnt you?"
Big Fish "Go away I am angry"
Small Fish: "If I go away how will you be important anymore?"

Radhe Radhe

I'll make a film.
About Radha of Vrindavan...I dont know when..I dont know with whom..but someday!
It will be a good film..Its been brewing in my blood for sometime.It would go out in the world and speaks to everyone.It will be a film I would want to see.