Theatre Gallery and Internals

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It’s been a long time since April 10 and 11, the two days we had the Theatre Gallery. Though a lot of new posts and stories have been written, right after April 11, I fell into the pit of internal submissions and practicals; and I’m currently binging on Something Just Like This (Damn!!! What a song!).
Right now, I have another test on the 9th, then 13th, then alllll the waayyyyy out on the 23rd. And then it’s done. College will be over. All four years of it; the end. I’m feeling optimistic, I’m not sad about it; college ending doesn’t mean I’ll lose touch with college. It stays, in here(points to the little thing called a heart).
A lot of writing, growing and maturity has taken place over the last month; when I couldn’t post. I want to tell you all about it; the Gallery, the act two weeks before that; the writing for the gallery, the concept and so much more. Theatre is a natural stimulant for a writer. Theatre moves away from the strict code of books and moves to more dramatic; and at times more artistic scenes, more abstract and open ended. Theatre allows for one character to be presented in a million ways by a million different actors, which is fuel for a writer, thinking of the million minus one which were not used. Then again, the scenes in theatre are less real and at times go more into the realm of the stage; scenes which only fit well on the stage and not a book. So naturally, when you spend so much time near a stage, your mind starts making scenes and stories which are more abstract and different from a book. You think of your characters as bigger than life rather than in life; you make them what people aspire to be, not how people are. A tinge of perfection to them, the tragic backstory, the ability to decide to act, and the ability to rise above life and its mundanity.
Some of these scenes and qualities you don’t find in books; so it’s important to be close to the stage as well in order to imbue new styles into your characters. For the stage, you need to write differently than the page; the page will leave you on your own with your mind to imagine, the stage makes you peer into the imagination of another.
I’ll go on in a few seperate posts about theatre and its impact, as well as the Theatre Gallery and its process of writing and it’s concept.
I also had my last practical today, which  went terrible, considering I knew more about the subject than 99% others. Bummer. The questions stumped me and left me shocked. But the day is a success, because it’s my sister’s birthday today ( she turns 25), and also coz I WAS IN THE ZONE TODAY!!!!!!!!!! I was on fire, metaphorically. I made terrible jokes, troubled everyone and everything, and then squashed up a golden opportunity to go to Taco Bell (Me sad. I have sad face while typing. I so sad). This is a learning experience, to not give up an opportunity for food which is there for something which could be there. McDonald’s it is now, sigh.
Till next time world, till next time. Till then, I shall be with my cartoonish and deep sullen sadness of compromising for McDonald’s.

Hectic Week

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Whew! The last week has been incredibly hectic and posting on the blog has taken a backseat. On Monday, I had a theatre performance after a longggg time. It was fun and amazing. I’ll post a photo of it, or a video if I get one. It was amazing! I poured all of my Friday, Saturday an Sunday into it. I’m proud of where I got to in three days. It was amazing and exciting.
I’ll be acting again next Monday and Tuesday, i.e. 10th and 11th of April for an event called Theatre Gallery(I’ll make sure to make a blog post about it to tell everyone about its unprecedented awesomeness and scale!). I’ve also poured in all my writing time available into writing for the Theatre Gallery. The characters, the scenes and the feel of it.
And like every final year student, I have job placements; which take up a lot of your time if you go for them. I had three this last week, on Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday. A lot of time gone!
I’ve also recently seen two new movies, the Jake Gyllenhaal and Ryan Reynolds Sci-fi Horror “Life” and the Taapsee Pannu starrer “Naam Shabana”. I also recently finished the amazing “Stoner” by John WIlliams. I’ll be getting around to their reviews and recommendations respectively as soon as I can. I also have a couple of new stories in the works, one which I’ve worked on for a week now. Plus, I got a PS4 Pro, so brace yourself for new game reviews and images and gameplay videos! All the time I used to put into writing, I now devote to the PS4 Pro and in some time, also Rainbow Six Seige.
In between all this, I make time for writing and work slowly and steadily on a multitude of pieces.
So, once I’m free-er, I’ll get back to posting with the same vigor and frequency as before.
Happy Reading!

The Changing Man-2

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I walked into Clancy’s Bar, like I have every day for god, even though I don’t technically believe in him, knows how long. It seemed more a habit than a tradition or happenstance to walk in this hole of the world and waste away.

I was simply another variable in this cog equation which refused to change, hence I was a constant, and however, I could change at any time, which meant I wasn’t. I could be differentiated, we all could be from each other. We all exist, differently. We were pseudo-constants.

We’re all pseudo-constants by virtue of habits, slowly, parasitically latching onto our existence. And that is the most fascinating thing about habits. They come too easy, but they don’t change as easily and don’t let us change. For example, coming to Clancy’s after a long day at the lab is a habit I maybe exercise too regularly. And another example, the good man I chit chat with always stays sober and available for various pseudo-intellectual musings. He never drinks. Not even under pressure or duress. He cannot be flapped.

Like I said, I walked into this hole again and to say the least, I was unfazed. Cheap country music, lethal tobacco and alcohol in the air, mindless drones dancing and drinking, lobotomised. The owner could have remodelled the walls, but even his businessman mind knows all of us will walk in here and not look the cheap wallpapered walls.

One question that I ponder over, while I search for my good man with whom I could continue my chat with how to be not so asocial. Is living by habit truly living? They say seize the moment, but working in a lab for seventeen years, you learn to plan ahead and not be caught off guard. It slowly becomes a part of you to make it a habit to be aware, no matter how monotonous it feels. If I stop living by this habit, I could maybe start enjoying more but could also kill a few people. And this habit makes my brain analysing what could go wrong rather than the person I’m talking currently.

The good man seems like he knows just what to say. His sobriety is his strongest gift.

I reach beside him, and in a rare moment, I’m caught off guard. My good man has broken all boundaries and turned into a full-fledged variable, though I don’t approve of it. It’s taken away his strongest gift.

“My good man, I though you didn’t drink”, I spoke.
“I don’t”, he responded, he looked shabby. Uncouth hair, a cheap whiskey in his hand and an equally unpleasant smell from his mouth. “But he does”, he said, pointing to the man he was turning into.

He turned back to his drink. And I couldn’t believe it. Of all the variables to change the equation, my good man chose to be it. Whether by his internal mechanisms or by some external stimuli, he believed change was a bit due. And this change in the equation, will lead to some more change in the variables. Which means I might have to change to make it right once again. I find this, well I don’t really know. To be honest, I’ve been caught off guard.

“The usual, professor?” the bartender asked me.

“It’s scientist, hell with it. I don’t know.” I really hadn’t thought of what I would do next. Correcting that I’m a scientist seems much too mundane right now.


 

Chats- The one at the funeral

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“I guess it’s my turn to speak now. It’s, it’s a huge honor I was asked to eulogize him. Even when going away, he have me the gift of telling me that I was one of his favourite people. Otherwise he would have never asked me to eulogize him.” *Wipes a tear from his eye*
“It is extremely weird to be talking about him, rather than with him. All of us sitting here have heard him talk and talk till litres of water were extinguished by him. We’ve all had one of the best conversations of our lives with him.” *Smiles*
“He loved to talk. There will never be any contest in that.”*Everybody laughs* “In those talks, in those words, more often than not, he gave us all wisdom; some knowledge about the world and how to live better in it. *Takes a long pause*
“I remember this one time we talked about life. We were talking about how so many fear they didn’t take in enough from the world. The greedy, who just kept on taking and taking. No boundaries. All the way till the horizon and beyond.” *Pauses and smiles*
“He said to me they’re all stupid. Idiots who didn’t understand life. I asked him and he said, Life: It’s not what you take, it’s what you give. I couldn’t decipher what he had said. I didn’t understand his words and he just sat there with his smug smile. That classic smirk and posture. Leaning on his left at the sofa, that smile, which told you he knew the answer while you were floundering for it. All of us here will undoubtedly know that posture.”
*Everyone in the audience chuckles*
“So, he tells me to answer. And no matter how smart he was, he was always kind. He never belittled anybody who didn’t know the answer. He gave you freedom and shared the answer with you. I told him my answer: We all remember that story. No matter how much we earn, none of it goes with us. It stays behind. So maybe, it’s related to that.” *Smiles again*
“He comes forward and says, “Partially”. And then he goes on with his answer. I’m paraphrasing, so please bear with me.” *Clears Throat*
“If you keep on taking love from people, or their time, they won’t remember you. You will just be another person who took from them. But when you give people your love, your time, your words, your sorrows, and your happiness; when you make memories with them, they remember you. They talk about you. So, at the end, you’re not remembered for the amount of money you made, or how much the world knew you or about you. You’re remembered by people for what you gave of yourself to them. Life: It’s not what you take, it’s what you give.”
*Smiles and shakes head*
“He gave us all so much. All of us sitting here, he gave us so much of his time, his words, through which he gave us his love. That’s why there are so many of us here.”
*Let’s out a tear*
“He gave so much to so many.
*Turns towards the coffin*
“I love you man. I really do. Thank you for all our chats and your words. They will be cherished, always. Thank you.”


 

The Hapless Romantic

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Grab a pint or two of rum,
And right here won’t you come?
And I will tell you a tale,
By the end of which you will be pale.

In the times of peace,
Lived a hapless romantic,
And in time, he moved to Greece,
Searching for the curse called love.

Found a girl of age twenty,
He was overcome with glee.
With her he found love a plenty,
But in time found she was a he.

Shattered, betrayed, broken,
He drifted to another city,
Travelling with a love unspoken,
And what a pity, right beside the Mississippi.

His dreams turned to dust,
And his fiery love to ashes.
And after many years in the middle of August,
Received so many crashes.

He went away into seclusion,
Away from the cruel cold of December.
Lost himself into an otherworldly illusion,
And the girl from Greece all he could remember.

Stepping outside his prison after years,
He went to the land called Greece,
Facing so many forgotten fears,
He longed for his lost peace.

Desperate for love, even fake,
He soon found out she was happy and gay.
And for his life’s sake,
He flew to a land of frost, far far away.

His time soon came,
With his tale lost in time,
Came a stop to his pain,
To the long lost son of mine.


This has to be one of my most favourite poems ever! I loved writing it, and I love reading it again and again. This was long back in 2012, almost five years. Whew! It feels almost unbelievable to think that it’s been five years since this poem. It feels almost electrifying I guess. Five years. And it doesn’t even seem like that. It feels less, compacted, as though it was less than five years. A noticeable time period, I can place it, but i can’t place it as being so far apart. Five years!
Even after five years, this poem still has that factor. The one which makes me proud that I wrote it and still has that power to tell a story in such few words. Plus, the imagination involved, and the artistic sense, which  I feel I’ve lost a lot in recent times. 
Without a doubt I’m certain everyone will love this poem!
Happy Reading!

Ramblings-Going Away

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Mother always called the Northeast the Shangri-La of India. Lush, calm, serene.
A perfect place for mother to send me to.
A change in scenario to calm my nerves from the bouts of crippling self-doubt I’ve been experiencing. Though I believe mother has a lot to do with it.
She has always pushed me into unknown places and unfamiliar scenarios to punish me. She has always manipulated me into believing there’s something wrong with the city life and the seven sisters will provide me some relief.
Now she’s pushing me away to a place whose geography culture and life is unknown to me. Unknown to all who lived in the city. She wants me to lose myself in a land far far away. It’s scary. I’m scared.


This is the second time I’m posting this piece, for all those who have started following my blog now!
Ramblings was designed to be the first person narratives of people stuck in distressing or awkward situations. I wrote this one for a competition, whose topic was, “The North-East of India”.
Hope everyone enjoys it thoroughly! Happy Reading!

Writing is a lifestyle

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The biggest issue with writing anything is, writing. Yes. That’s it. The biggest issue with writing anything starts when you sit down on your chair, pages ready to be written onto, and you can’t pen down a single word. It’s either because you’re tired, or you’re feeling uncomfortable, or you’re not in the zone, or you just don’t know what to write. You pen down a couple of lines, but that’s it. You scratch that out, then you write some more; either on the same topic or another topic. You get a bit on it, but then again you hit a block. So you take five minutes, think what more can you write, write a few more words, hit another block and then scratch it all out. This loop continues till either you get up, tired and exhausted or you pen down something. More often than not, we get up tired and exhausted.
Why does this happen? Why is it that we sit down to write but we’re unable to? Our heart is in it, so is our mind, our body too; why wont the words come out? Usually it is because we can’t find the right set of words to express what we are feeling. But what if, just think about it, what if it’s because we have no words? No thoughts to verbalise. We can’t write down anything, because we have nothing to write about.
Last June, I made it a habit to start writing again. I used to take time out to write. Be it my novel, or a story, a Book Recommendation, Movie Review or Movie to Watch, or musings, like this one. I wrote a lot. Much much more than February. Each time I sat down to write back in June, I had been thinking about what I wanted to write and it came out properly. What I wanted to say, how the story would move forward, who would say what, what I loved about the book or the movie, why I’m recommending it to everyone; or what I wanted to tell people.
But each time I went in without all this thinking, I was blank. I would stare at the pages, move my pen, but couldn’t get ahead despite getting a good start. After a point, I thought I couldn’t write, or I would end up spending 4 hours in a piece I would have usually completed in 2.5 hours. A lot of the times, the article would be completely terrible. I would have to drag through it rather than swim. And instead of being chirpy, I would be tired, physically, mentally and of my writing.
The pieces I thought a great deal about, they were usually the best. The pieces I went in blank with, they were meh. Improvising on a piece works when you have a plan, not when you have nothing. You need a direction in which the improvisation must take you.
Writing, like fitness, is not an activity. It’s a lifestyle. Writing, acting, painting, drawing. These are all lifestyles. You can’t just do them, especially a new piece. You need to put in time to think about what you want to do and how. Just like you abstain from bad foods for fitness, you see something happen and you think, “This is a great idea for a story”. When you’re alone in the metro, sit and think or maybe even write a new piece. Instead of sitting idle and bored, try to think of something or muse about something.
The two hours you sit down to write, a lot like the two hours you go to the gym are just another activity, not the only activity.