Animated, Inanimated & Partially Animated

I don’t know whether he was at the right place or the wrong one when he got that phone call, or whether he started drinking before that phone call or after that. He did react to it exactly the same way I expected. First he decided to throw his mobile off from the cliff and then he thought he should throw himself off. But he didn’t follow either of those instant thoughts but sat down sipping his sixth peg of Gin and Lemonade, smoking the last joint left in his hands.

Joy Kuttan was born as ‘JOY KUTTAN’ for those proud orthodox Christian parents from Kottayam district of Kerala, who believed them to be the successors of one of the disciples of St. George. Unlike the other babies born around the globe at 10.30 AM on 21st Dec 1982, he was considered as a surprise… He surprised everyone by a laugh instead of cry as if he was so excited seeing the first light outside. Doctors claimed that he came out much early too. The next thing he did was winking at the nurse who cleaned him. The priest, Mani Achan, from the nearby church who happened to be there by chance, with all heart, wished him with the name ‘Joy Kuttan’. All the Malayalies thus started calling him ‘Joy Kuttaaaaa….’. For a few years he lived as ‘Baby Boy. Joy Kuttan’. When he once shared screen with Superstar Mammootty for a film as a child actor, his name was scrolled in the credits as ‘Master. Joy Kuttan’. Since then it took many years for him to grow up to the status of Mr. Joy Kuttan.
This is the history, geography and cultural background of this character. I had to stop for a while to clean the utensils in kitchen. While doing that I was thinking on what made him plan his tour in his dirty modified Mahindra Classic Jeep to the suicide point of Kodaikanal from his rich rubber estate in Kottayam… and that too all alone. I really don’t know… may be some kind of instinct. Well, we all do follow instincts! Don’t we? What do you think is the basic instinct behind Cockroach’s plan of writing about one Joy Kuttan in joy that no one seems to enjoy?

Though his intention was not clear, he was obviously not in the mood or the mode of killing himself. But the phone call did knock him down. The intoxication of Gin was so tight too. The phone call could be a rude one, an unexpected one or an unexpectedly rude one… what ever. He smiled at the sky and the dead-end for his jeep and the life, lying down alone at the tip of the cliff. After a while he did something really crazy. Even I didn’t expect that.

He opened his bag and pealed a paper off from the book that first got caught in his hand. (I forgot to say that Joy Kuttan was an avid reader.) It was the first page of ‘Broken Glass’ by African writer Alain Mabanckou where he had written the golden phrase ‘in Africa, when an old person dies, a library burns’. He hardly bothered to read it but scribbled “good bye” on the empty sides of the paper and said this loud in an insanely shivering tone “Thanks for those tiny indecent reasons of your own, that I am on my own from now on.”

In a few seconds, a paper rocket flew up from the suicide point of Kodaikanal. It had no emotions. It sailed in the sky- in the air- so aimlessly. The paper didn’t know the meaning of any African phrase. But it had a rich history of its own. It was once the part of a forest tree at Valayar region in Kerala. The tree was stolen and exported as forest wood, later cut and processed at various places. The paper that became the rocket in the hands of Joy Kuttan was once that portion, thrown as unwanted useless priceless pieces, carried away as waste wood and processed at Punaloor paper mills. A different fate was waiting in the hands of small time printers who sold replica of famous books. It thus became the first page of ‘Broken Glass’ of Alain Mabanckou carrying the famous phrase from Africa for a reader like Joy Kuttan, who never believed in gathering knowledge for big money. As I said earlier, that paper didn’t have any emotions by itself. With the wind it continued its journey towards yet another fate… as it was been always…

Neither the emotional Joy Kuttan nor the emotionless paper rocket found the presence of the third character in this story - ‘Joy Kuttan, The Rocket and Chinnu’. Yes, it is Chinnu, I don’t know her exact name so let me call her Chinnu. Well, we humans have this weird habit of giving names to anything and everything without their permission. (I am thinking of all those pets in our lives – David the dog, Ruby the kitten etc…) For my convenience I am taking the liberty of calling her Chinnu. She was a beautiful black ant, and the queen of her colony. Just like her companions she was living a simple life gathering food and bringing up her children. Her fate was quite simple and certain, until Joy Kuttan threw her into the complex and uncertain. It was not intentional. She was caught in between the gap of the paper rocket.

Chinnu’s colony was very near to the place where Joy Kuttan’s jeep was parked. She was disturbed by the noise of jeep while feeding her children, and thus came out to face the intruder. The tyre of the jeep was very near to her colony. She was not capable to understand what would have happened if it was parked one step ahead. For that matter, she was not familiar about anything else other than her little world around. How many of us actually know the ‘Actual World’? How much of the world can be explored by a small little ant, who has nothing other than a colony that can be placed under the tyre of a jeep, living with less than a hundred adult inhabitants and a probable thirty little ones.

The wind carried Chinnu caught in that paper rocket, to her uncertainty… I can’t explain what was going on her mind during the journey. Being a nonliving object, I am pretty sure that the journey didn’t make any sense for the rocket. But the black ant is a living being capable of thinking. May be she is not as intelligent as a human being, but she definitely had emotions. Chinnu was the protector of her children and her colony too… May be she is a creature not capable of keeping memories on their realities… but she definitely had a reality and the sense of existence.

The paper rocket floated up in the sky like a feather. A lot many times huge birds like the eagles and vultures tried to grab it confusing it to the pigeons and sparrows. But it escaped with the difference in the pressure of wind as they approached each time. Swinging and swaying it took nine days for that rocket to reach the surface of land… a village nearby… but by then Chinnu was dead and dried, stuck to the surface of the rocket…

I did imagine a situation a few years later… One day Annamma Saira Philip who was by then Mrs. Joy Kuttan, discovered a black stain right on the nose of the photograph of famous Dr. Joy Kuttan featured in an article that came in the Sunday Suppliment of Mathrubhoomi Newspaper. There was no more African Phrases by Mabanckou except for an always-dull photo with a black stain on the nose … and the paper didn’t have any emotion to carry by itself…

The Squirrel of Ramayana

“They say that I am handsome only because of those three white lines. In fact, I haven’t even seen them as they are stamped on my back. To be honest with you, they didn’t make any difference in my life.” The squirrel replied for cockroach’s compliment, munching some cereals scattered on the courtyard.

“Does anyone remember me now? I am the Squirrel of Ramayana,” he continued moving around in a hurry as if he has just one more day to live. Cockroach looked surprised at his antics, with his mouth wide open.

“For many centuries I walked through the pages of Ramayana, as told by the saint Valmiki. I had grown old now. Still remember that day so fresh in my eyes.” He wiped his face with his tender hands, shaking his body cleaning the grains caught in the grey coat of thick fur. “I guess, the Lord noticed me only because of this habit. I was just helping him to build a bridge over the sea. Saw him so much in pain, missing wife Sita.”

“It was a rainy day in the forest. I woke up listening to a buddy bird chirping loud the news of some monkey’s march to the beach. I was so deep in sleep coz of the routine tiring day gathering food for dear little ones and my sweet heart. In sleep I didn’t even realize the heavy rain that socked me deep in. The whole forest was coloured green and grey with the water splashing from leaf tips and tree branches. Sunlight was struggling to find the way in through the dense green layer that protected us like a mother. Yet a few beams intruded into our world through hollow hallow spaces, blessing us with another new day of action and passion.”

“I shook my body to get rid of the water stuck to the skin. A few drops thus fell into my mouth. That day- for some crazy reason- the rainwater tasted salty like tears. Was the sky kept weeping for someone?”

“Curiosity is my colour by birth. True to that nature, I couldn’t resist the instinct. Rushing through the wet slippery branches I found my way targeting the seaside. I was new to those parts of the jungle and hence a bit scared about the owls and eagles possibly hiding here and there. Each day someone among us needed to be sacrificing our lives being the meal of their children. Now that is the general rule of the jungle, a city dweller like you might not understand.” The squirrel looked at cockroach, “It is all about sustaining the cycle of life and protecting a precious specious.”

“As I moved on, the appearance of the land and trees changed. Instead of monstrous ones like the bearded Banyan tree or the perfumed Jackfruit tree, there were more palms and coconut trees revealing the fact that I am quite nearer to the sea. In a few hours, along with the sound of rain, I heard the cry of monkeys in the air. Whether it is talk or action, no one can be as good as the monkeys. They were considered to be the most restless beings in our forest. But hardly anyone understood their talks; interestingly they themselves did’t seem to have any clue of their own conversations. Whatever ill we say, its them who had the will to support the Lord in his pain and thus the mission.”

“I reached the last layer of trees right near the beach. Sitting on top of a huge coconut tree I had an aerial view of the land underneath. I must say I had never seen anything like that before; it was stunning. As I told you, the monkeys were naturally active, but I had never seen them that active ever before. On the vast sand of the beach, in that continuous rain of agony, they were so busy in building the bridge across the sea. The whole monkey population was there including the old and the little ones; even the young elegant pregnant ladies to the ones who already had their babies hanging on their shoulders. On the extreme end of the beach I saw the Lord. He was obviously dull with the pain reflecting in his eyes. The birds were right; he looked so incomplete without his woman. For that matter, any man is incomplete without his woman by his side. Only the luckiest ones could have a good fate. Sita was still the part of his body and mind. The sea could be a physical barrier, but it couldn't be capable to fence their hearts. I knew the whole story about him and Sita from the gypsy migratory cranes that often visited the pools inside our forest. They all were philosophical in their talk because of genuine knowledge and understanding of the world. An old crane once told me that even the Gods needed to undergo the same struggles as of any other being, being a part of the living world. Hence Rama, the Lord too…”

“Among the monkeys I couldn’t identify most of the faces. But I recognized the monkey hero of the forest Hanuman and the leader of the lot, Sugriva. Without any sense of hierarchy they all were equally involved in sharing the tasks, carrying big rocks, sand etc for the construction of the bridge. The passionate engineers among them worked out many brilliant options to get it done fast. I heard that the big monkeys had to consult with the craftsmen of the jungle, the red ants and spiders, on tips for construction.”

“Immediately, a sense of responsibility stuck my mind and I crawled down the tree and ran across the sand towards the plot. I knew that they still needed more people, and I thought I could be of some help. I carried some sand in my hands and walked towards the bridge along with the other monkeys. They were all so involved that they didn’t realise me walking underneath. I had to really struggle between their massive inconsistent leg movements. As I threw the sand, I understood that it is too less compared to the huge sacks carried by the monkeys.”

“My little hands didn’t help me much. I had do something else. Probably that was the only moment in life I actually looked at my size. I wish I had bigger hands and body like them. While looking on my body, an idea flashed in. In the rain I was wet… I also had so much fur on my skin. Now that could work. I didn’t think much but followed my intuition plunging into the seawater from the bridge. Then swam back to the beach, twisted and turned on the sand, so that the it got stuck on my wet fur. It did work, my entire body including the face was covered by sand in seconds.”

“I then walked towards the bridge. Over there I shook my body, so that the whole sand falls on the bridge. It was quite a good plan and I felt so proud of myself. Yet deliberately, didn’t look at any monkey’s contribution. I knew that mine wouldn’t match them. I didn’t want to get beaten by that complex. So consciously avoided them and continued with what I was capable of. So many plunges in sea water… so many times crawling on the sand… so many times carrying the sand on my body to the bridge… the day just went on, busy on the task.”

“There was so much of energy and enthusiasm among the monkeys, that oozed into my mind too. We all had only one aim and one heart. Slowly, I somehow felt equal to them. I saw all of them, but no one seemed to have noticed me. I was even faster in my movements. In the time a monkey carried his sack of sand to the bridge, I almost finished with three of my rounds.”

“I didn’t even realize the passing time… I guess no one did, but the sun god was done with his ride in the sky for the day and was ready to hide himself in the sea. The horizon lost the blue, turning it red orangey.”

“I felt someone’s hand on my back and in no time I was lifted up from the ground. I shivered in shock. It was definitely not the catch of an owl or an eagle. A few among us who had narrow escapes from the clutches of the owl, had already explained to me how it felt on their skin. I was held so smoothly in the air. Ironically, the alarming shiver of my body changed to a sense of weird security in those hands. But still I was unable to look back and see the one who lifted me.”

“I felt the touch of another hand, with the fingers slowly moving on my back. A touch of care, love and gratitude… I closed my eyes for a moment. It was like seeing the whole world coming into me and me dissolving in the world. All the uncertainties became certain… all the questions changed to answers… I saw my little ones chirping and playing on my body; I felt my sweetheart’s breath on my chest. I realised that they are my world and I am for the world. My duty is to make my family happy... My duty is to make the world happy…”

"The tender hands that held me up, left me down too. As I touched the soil, my mind returned back to the reality of life - being the same little squirrel, crawling on trees, gathering food for children and loving his woman. The Lord did his duty to his parents, wife and the world, living as a normal human being experiencing all the struggles common for mankind.”

“They say that I got the three white lines on my back by the touch of his fingers. I had never seen the Lord close; I had only experienced that smooth soothing touch. Well, those three lines didn’t make any difference in my life. As the visionary gypsy crane said I am born in this world for that experiences of life, both the good and the bad - simple and straight. The Lord himself had to undergo all those hardships!”

“Centuries passed and I am still the same little squirrel of Ramayana… doing all that I am capable of doing. You are right Cockroach; I live as if I have only one more day to live.” He jumped over the fence of the courtyard and vanished in the green, just like any other squirrel.

Crime and Punishment

Who am I? I wonder what so many writers did to me. Whenever I talk, write or make a film to the world I feel myself being Raskolnikov of Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’, bending down on his knees to the street prostitute Sonia and doing his confessions. Well, what is the difference between Raskolnikov and me, the world and Sonia. World is like that prostitute busy earning for her basic living, selling her skin and I am probably the same young-man lying down drunk in the gutters without drinking in a state of trans. Writer Permbadavam Sreedharan, in his Malayalam novel ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’- about the most stressful and romantic chapter of Dostoevsky’s life - called him ‘Hrudayathil Daivathinte Kayyoppulla Ezhuthukaran’ (The writer who has the signature of God on his heart). While reading every single word of Fyodor I still do confuse whether he had written it with ink or his blood. Reading him is like watching a sincere cinema.

I read the first copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ from library, when I was in 8^th standard. Ended every single chapter with a tear in my eyes and naturally developed an addiction to the writer giving him a status equal to the God. One day my father gave me a gift - Perumbadavam Sreedharan’s ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Pole’. Sreedhran, himself confessed that it was his dream to write about Dostoevsky and the chapter and plot he adapted for this fiction was dusted, crafted and touched with a lot of love and care. Naturally it was a winner and thus, to date, it is the most selling novel in Malayalam. I remember reading that book like a bible. In Dostoevsky I experienced all of his characters. In a way, he was also a Raskolnikov busy doing his criminal confessions through his characters. I can’t forget. There was a beautiful moment in life, almost equal to a dark evening at Marina beech at a later point in life. A few days after I finished reading ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’, I got a prize from Mr. Sreedharan for a short story competition conducted by culture centre ‘Mela’ in my hometown. I didn’t know whom or how to thank for that, at that little age. Life’s joyful miracles… I do cherish. Both ‘Crime and Punishment’ and ‘Oru Sangeerthanam Poole’ I still keep close to soul.

Somerset Mougham once called Emily Bronte’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ equal to a bible. He also had ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ of Dostoevsky among the ten must-read books before you die.

I almost lost the flare of reading now, but the ones I read in my childhood are so fresh in heart, whether it is poems, short stories or novels. I used to read poems of Chinua Achebe, Sarojini Naidu and Wordsworth with a lot of love. More than just reading, I liked reciting poems like Naidu’s ‘Palanquin Bearers’ and Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’ in a musical note while swinging and walking with my sister to the school. I liked acting as Watson of Sherlock Holms, coz according to me he is the luckiest man on earth for having the detective as his friend. I had a huge collection of Holms images and articles about him.

It was the same with Malayalam literature. While Vailappilli’s ‘Mampazham’ made me cry, Irayimman Thampi’s lullaby gave me sound sleep. I wanted to travel with S.K Pottakkadu to the Nile River to see crocodiles and Hippos. Another book I have read umpteen numbers of times is P. Narendranath’s ‘Parayi Petta Panthirukulam’, because that used to be my mother’s favourite. While my father is a man prefer staying outside home busy working in farm, my mother remains an avid reader. I really don’t know whose gene is more powerful in me.

While listening to Hindi lesson’s by Swamiji, I had this fascination to short stories in hindi literature too. Interestingly I read most of Tagore’s stories like Kabuliwalah in Hindi. But it was nice listening to Swamiji narrating those stories and poems, because he always used to combine his experiences as a military man in north, literally visualising the landscapes there. He used to recite Harivamsa Rai Bachan's classic poems the same way he sung Kabirdas, Soordas and Thulasidas.

Other than the Godly figure Dosthovisky, there are a few writers whom I guess I could relate more than anybody else… whom I could feel free to talk … whom I could have had some kinda personnel connection, may be like my grandpa or grandmom. They are Kunjunni Mashu, Ruskin Bond, R.K. Narayan and Kamaladas. More than their stories I liked listening to the voice of Kunjunni Maashu and Kamaladas, their interviews in TV. They are full of enthusiasm, love and passion. I was not in Kerala when both of them died. I happened to hear about their death much later through friends and Internet. Felt like I lost connection with the world for hours. Those were the people whom I wanted to stay with me till I die speaking to me, the reality of life mixing with the fantasy of life. True dreamers… people who were so open at heart going to any extend talking without any masks on their faces, living according to their intuitions... and imaginations... simple and straight.

Love for Ruskin Bond and R.K Narayan started since I saw serial Malgudi Days and a Doordarshan serial on Ruskin Bond. I could somehow feel their personal presence so deep in me. One of the most powerful write-up I read is Narayan’s ‘Next Sunday’, where he had broken down the barriers of fiction and non-fiction, speaking spontaneously on autobiographical style and a unique treatment leaving you laughed, surprised, tensed as well as excited… something beyond all genres. You will laugh if I say that I tried to act as a blind man imagining a similar situation as that of Ruskin Bond’s ‘The girl in the train’ (I have seen the same story with someother title, not sure). This is one story that I always wanted to film ever since I started learning the art of filmmaking. Still confused about the treatment to be used and the perspective to be identified.

I am not forgetting any other revolutionary writers whom I respect a lot like O Henry, Paulo Coelho, M.T. Vasudevan Nair, V.T, Lalithambika Andarjanam, Balamani Amma etc. Writing a novel like Andarjanam's 'Angnisakshi' is not a joke during that era in Kerala. I once argued that an MBA lesson is incomplete without teaching 'Animal Farm'. But then literature is an ocean, where I used to dive deep and now almost lost even the talent to do a surface swim. Just remembering the number of sharks, piranhas, angelfishes, octopuses and dolphins I have met in those dives in my childhood… remembering the oysters and pearls I have collected in those adventures…

Today I feel myself standing at the beech looking at the waves… at times scribbling on the sand about those adventures... so aimlessly...

Demon & the Mermaid

Grandpa’s bedtime tales used to be mesmerising chapters of the epics Ramayana and Mahabharatha. Nesting our heads on his white hairy chest my cousin and me used to dream about the legendary jump of majestic monkey God Hanuman over the sea to Lanka overthrowing the obstacles caused by sea serpent Surasa and the monstrous mountain Minakam. Imaginations on mystic mythical beings are wild and vibrant since then. During the school days Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey gathered from the dusty old cupboard of Swamiji taught me how to ride on centaurs, dragons and unicorns too. No intention to compete with Vyasa, Valmiki or Homer…Framing neither an epic saga nor a fairy dairy. This is about the snowy reality of a Demon and a Mermaid, who are alter egos. Epics have quite a lot goons meditating to gain boons for options to hide their souls from jealous gods. This story is about such a demon. Beauty of any fairy tale is that they are the only literature on earth that cannot be questioned.

The demon - a silent creepy little creature - never longed for anything else except for following his devilish intentions and intuitions on his voyage to be a victor of the world. Gods were naturally jealous. Wherever possible they shot sparks of lightning shocks at him creating scars on his body and mind. Interestingly yet ironically they never knew where his life was. He was looked as a nasty being living with a violent heart and silent soul. The demon himself was surprised about his survival each time and the mystery behind his life.

On one of the rides on his centur at the grainy grey beech sand, he found a stained bottle caught in the net with an unclear message wrapped inside. The centur read it clearly to him. He discovered the sign of a mermaid living many oceans away who seemed to have written it. When the demon placed the bottle on salty water, a glimpse of her beautiful body reflected on the sides of the bottle smiling at him and in seconds it flowed down and dissolved in the shallow waters of the ocean. Demon immediately muttered a message in the ears of centurs and asked him to ride over the oceans and find her. Wagging his tail the centur jumped over the waves and raced on the ocean surface. It took many months for him to come back. But what he got with him was a visage filled with tiny drops of kisses by the Mermaid.

The next time when the Gods shot a lightning at the Demon, he fell deep into the seawater sinking down to the unknown in an unconscious state. The salty water entered into his ears and revealed the truth and mystery behind his life. The Demon heard the mermaid’s laughing voice echoing vague with the ripples hurrying to escape from the water. The visage of kisses opened and they covered all over his body, like tiny little fishes of rainbow colours. The streaks of light peeped in from the sky through the water scattering over the scales of the fishes. The demon felt the kiss of mermaid on his lips. He held her tight to his body and kissed behind her long neck. Her naughty golden hairs covered his face and the rosy lips whispered this, “ Your soul is safe in me, millions of oceans away. It is not for the Gods…”

As he opened his eyes lying at the grainy sands of the beach, to the beautiful red sun sailing high in the sky, many oceans away the murmur of his soul melted on her lips. Listening to her words drafted in an echo of laughter he stood high on the sand taking a deep breath of chill salty sea wind. While he exhaled, he whispered a name… Only the centur heard it… and kept it a quite secret in his heart.

A fairy tale cannot be questioned… until it is an experience. Grandpa never said this to me… but life did…

Karna Motcham - Incarnation of Karna

An amazing film I saw yesterday that made me realize how fake my films are in concepts and treatment. Karna Motcham is an award winning short film about a Theru-Koothu Artist and his one-day life in Chennai. Screenplay written and Directed by S.Murali Manohar, Story, Dialogues by Writer S.Ramakrishnan. This short film have won more than 60 awards including National award by Government of India, Tamilnadu Government Best short film, Best Director etc.

This film reminded me of my all time favourite director till date, Im Kwoen-Tak and his films Sopyonje and Chi Hwa Seon - Painted Fire. His films has volumes on his own land, the people, history, culture, traditions, geography, climatic conditions…etc… While Sopyonje says the story of the life of a performer of Korean traditional folk form Panasori, The Painted Fire is about a traditional Korean Calligrapher Owon. In both the films the passion of the artists are shown through every single property and parameter of cinema.

As the film ‘Chi Hwa Seon’ progresses we see the climate of Korean land changing in every scene. It has wide angles of the nature and the Korean land, it has deep emotions, row and natural people, and it has nearly everything that can possibly act as the cultural ambassador of the Korea. The passion of the artist is shown so deep. The calligrapher once break into a house that is in the control of military to make a small correction in his painting, all his best paintings are done as favour for different people including the wife who cheated him, his teacher and friends. In a frame we see a fleet of sparrows flying high in the sky and the shot dissolves to a long calligraphy by the artist who has all those sparrows sketched with perfection. The film Sopyonje used all the similar metaphors possible to symbolise the art Panasori. I cannot forget that long static scene where the Panasori Master and his children singing ‘Aariraari rang Soori soorirang’ and walking across an original Korean Landscape. The scene starts with all the three as small spots at the extreme end of the path and the frame remains static throughout until they sing and come close to the camera and leave. In the theatre I found audience standing and clapping for this single scene. It is the simplest and effective cinematic representation of passion and the film was thus the blood and flesh of the director representing his passion. In my life no other scenes thrilled me as much as this in theatre.

I have seen both these films only once and they are so haunting that I remember every single frame of it so deep in heart. I have a weird way of judging a cinema, which is obviously not the best or the right way. I consider those films that melt in me so perfectly hesitating to get out of memory as my favourite films. While Chaplin remains the role model as a cinematic brand, it is Im Kwoen-Tak who is my ‘complete director’ and thus a target to reach. Both these men are impossible to reach in perfection or style, but I do treat them with at most respect as the Gurus of cinema.

Talking about Chaplin, Im Kwoen-Tak or any of their films is not that easy. I can talk hours and hours about them, why them? Even a single frame in their film itself! There is so much to explore and study in detail.

Coming back to where I started- Karna Motcham. This could be one such film I have seen after a very long time that conveyed the beauty of the geography, culture, emotion etc of a land so perfectly in its concept and treatment. I was so surprised seeing such a film from Tamil Nadu. So thrilled and excited on the possibility of a revival period for good cinema in Tamil. If people are not reaching good cinema, let us take this pledge to take cinema to the people.

Art was, is or will not be a commodity. It is all about creation, innovation, communication, passion and sharing without expectation. Karna Motcham is one such film that should reach people of Tamil Nadu and the world representing Tamil Nadu.

The Beachcomber

A short story narrated by my friends Alice and acted by Eugene. This is a chapter of omnibus film ‘Fish and the Yesterday Song’ by my artist friends Claire and Peter of Skimtone Studio with old people of Newcastle. I was been lucky to be a part this project helping them in shooting the film. I have also done the documentation of the process of making this collaborative process-led film.

More than the film, the unconditional love of each and every participant was a memory to cherish for this lifetime. Eugene and me shared quite a lot time cracking jokes and fooling around. Well, it was like getting a good friend whom I can relate very well. He too calls me his best friend now. Cheers dude. And definitely Alice, she is my sweet heart too. Love u guys. The film was a great effort of six months by Artists Claire and Peter. Kudos to the team. We all got so many hugs and kisses, which is precious than any awards or appreciation. Hope to make another film with the team.

no more snow

Smile

The only thing the Little Tramp wanted was a little smile on her face… He smiled at her and so did she… Together they walked hand in hand, down a road at dawn, towards an uncertain future of new hope as the music ‘Smile’ flowed in the background. This is the climax of Charlie Chaplin film ‘Modern Times’. ‘Smile’ is a musical composition by Chaplin himself. My curiosity made me do a bit of research on this violin piece and happen to get a lot of surprises. A simple search to know about the versions of this song put me in an endless loop. My hunt for ‘smile’ made me fill my computer screen with countless ‘smiles’. In an hour I could find almost two hundred plus versions by various singers and I had to end the search… For a moment I saw the ghost of Chaplin smiling at me standing right in front of me. Can’t explain the feeling in the blog. I had to smile back… out of all my tensions. Chaplin was always been a role model whom I truly envy. I wish I could bring such smiles. Sigh! Well…Chaplin is Chaplin…and that is a film and not reality.

Smile, though your heart is aching,

Smile, even though it's breaking.

When there are clouds in the sky,

you'll get by.

If you smile through your fear and sorrow,

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through

for you.

Light up your face with gladness,

Hide every trace of sadness.

Although a tear may be ever so near,

That's the time you must keep on trying,

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile,

If you just smile.

I strongly believe that there was, is and will be only one brand called Charlie Chaplin. Sure, no one can be 100% in anything, but he did prove that there is a rank for being 99.99%. Who is this man? Where does he come from? Where did he go? And why? I have no answers… I am speechless each time I hear something new about him. How could he make people so happy?

The Chaplin’s version of ‘Smile’ was an instrumental piece that came out with ‘Modern Times’, in the year 1936. Later in 1954, John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons added the lyrics and it was sung by Nat King Cole. Since then, till date ‘Smile’ has had many versions, I leave you to explore. I had to quit….

‘Smile’ was also said to be Michael Jackson’s favourite… Michael Jackson recorded the song for his 1995 double album HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I. After his death in June 2009, the song charted due to legal digital download sales.

This is a sample list of others who sang it… well this is just some of the names I could search…… I had to quit…..

Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, Natalie Cole, Michael Bolton, Barbra Streisand, Skeeter Davis, Judy Garland, Diana Ross, The Lettermen, Eric Clapton, Betty Everett and Jerry Butler, Timi Yuro, Holly Cole, Elvis Costello, Lyle Lovett, Julia Migenes, Steve Howe & Martin Taylor, Dalida, Michael Jackson, Michael Bublé, Maria Friedman, Petula Clark, Djavan, Sun Ra, Robert Downey Jr., Ray Quinn, Tony Bennett, Janelle Monae, Russell Watson, Josh Groban, Jimmy Durante, Barbi Benton, David Whitfield, Westlife, Harry Connick Jr., Charice, Nydia Rojas, Madeleine Peyroux, Harry Connick Jr, The Fureys, Charice Pempengco, Chris Botti, Ingmar Nordstrom, John Barry, Diana Ross, The Savage Rose, Chris Walden, Petula Clark, Hanne Boel, Ray Quinn, Roger Whittaker, Michael Bolton, Timi Yuro, Tony Bennett, Judy Garland, Rickie Lee Jones, Frank Pourcel, Manfred Junker, Lena Maria, Pierre Boussaguet, Palle Mikkelborg, Trijntji Oosterhuis, Jimmy Durante, Nana Mouskouri, Trini Lopez, Cyd Sharice, Chiquita, Ruby Murray, Sun Ra, Elvis Costello, Martin Nievera, Staffan William-Olsson, Tune Robbers,Holy Cole, Steve Brookstein, Sandie Shaw, Pearl Django, Linda Eder, Lucia Micarelli, Russell Watson, Ruth Brown, Joe Longthrone, Jimmy Scott, Sammy Davis Jr, Long John Baldry, Petula Clark, Tony O'Malley, Peggy lee, Spirit, Judy Garland, Amalia Gre', Amy Dickson, Atlantic Five Jazz Band, Johnny Mathis, Lisa Dawn Miller, Grace Kelly, Steve Tyrell, Jerome Jackson, David Whitfield, Danny La Rue, Lita Roza, Jacqueline Francois, All'Amore Ensemble, Simon Schott………..

Let's SMILE :)

Aerial Boundaries

"I try to live my life like I play my guitar" said Hedges, "asking, 'what happens if I press this?' I'm always pushing the boundaries of comfort."

While studying in MCC, in the year 2004, my friend Amit gave a music album called Miracles that was a collection of musical masterpieces by various composers around the world.

The music piece that immediately caught my attention was ‘Aerial Boundaries’ by American composer and acoustic guitarist Michael Hedges from Oklahoma. Since then I don’t think I have had a day in my life without listening to it. Slapping and plucking of strings or percussive slapping on the guitar body gives a totally different feel, which I guess is quite unique of Hedges. Except an ear for music I have no commendable knowledge of music, so I am not talking much on this. But acoustic guitar always remained a love and thus the songs based on it.

‘Aerial Boundaries’ always takes me to many mountain peaks and heights I keep imagining in life and the richness of my solitude. I often have dreams of rich green mountains touching clouds. Listening to it makes me experience the same, the touch of clouds and smell of raw and chill wind. I was reading about Michael Hedges today. Sorry to realize that he passed away at the age of 43 in late 1997, in a car accident. He was driving home from San Francisco after a Thanksgiving visit to his girlfriend in Long Island, New York. His body was found a few days afterward. The very next year 1998, his record Oracle won the Grammy Award for Best New Age Album. Hedges was able to let go of attachments and live the life of a true travelling troubadour, with a little Zen in his pocket says John Beaudin in an essay about him.

Michael Hedges was also a multi-instrumentalist, playing piano, percussion, tin whistle, harmonica, and flute, among others on his albums. Some of the techniques he used include slap harmonics created by slapping the strings over a harmonic node, use of right hand hammer-ons particularly on bass notes, percussive slapping on the guitar body etc. He also made extensive use of string dampening as employed in classical guitar, and was known to insist strongly on the precise duration of sounds and silences in his pieces. He also played guitar-variants like the harp guitar and the Trans-Trem Guitar.

My impatience definitely didn’t let me grab any knowledge of guitar, though I have tried learing it many times. There was always been a guitar in my room for no specific reason but as a showpiece. I remember that silver coloured one I had in mcc that was taken by hall friends for Saarang festival at IIT. I have no clue, where it had gone later, but sure it was there in Heber Chapel for one more year. Yesterday at Skimstone studio, my friend Peter gave me his old guitar, that I am now thinking of getting repaired… Don’t know what is its fate…

My Lost pAges

Introduce you to a new blog page www.mylostpages.blogspot.com that is short book I have written during my college days in in MCC. I thought I won't wait for publishing it but share it with those who like to read some real crap. :)

‘My Lost pAges’ is about a writer’s lost ages through his pages. It is a postmodern fiction without any conventional form or structure. It has neither a start nor an end. The structure is as of a book that can be read from any page - start to end, reverse or from any pages you wish to start with. Sincerely that is exactly the way that I have read all the books in my life. My favorite writer is Paulo Coelho. To be honest with you, I have not finished reading any of his books except The Alchemist.

I am not a writer in any weird sense, but in this write-up I am imagining myself as a great writer. ‘My Lost Pages’ are the pages this writer, lost from many of his personal notes as well as other works. Hence there are a lot of factual and fictional references.

There is no big thought process or targets while writing it, except the fact that I was writing with a fever of almost a 100 degrees and was unable to go out anywhere else from the room for three days. It was written during those days in the year 2004, in some alien mood that I can’t express now. Till today I’m unsuccessful to get the same mood to frame an extra page to My Lost pAges.

I’m dedicating this work to my family, 18 freaks of M.A Communication, Hexaware friends and that special someone who is my alter ego for past few years in pain and gain, whom I have never met in my life but known only through her voice and support.

Cheers,

Cockroach

Panguni Uttiram

There is a saying in Kerala called ‘Aram Pattuka’ that means the incidents mentioned in the book can happen in author’s life. It is not that I believe it completely, but after doing a documentary film called ‘Not a Drop of Rain’ on drought in the districts of Kalahandi and Naupada in Orissa, I have faced serious shortage of water at home. Well, if the saying is still true…u can see me married soon. Because two days back I finished a documentary film on the festival of marriage of Gods…Panguni Uthiram. :)
I shot this festival on April 8^th. Panguni Uthiram is an auspicious day in which the star Uttiram meets the Paurnami. (Full-moon day). According to the epics it is on this occasion that many of the divine marriages are celebrated. Well the details of the festival are uploaded in Wikipedia as my Field Report for National Folklore Support Center.

Before concluding this post I would like to to speak about what fascinated me in this shoot -the way which people responded for the interviews. I was so surprised in the beginning because everyone in Kanchipuram who participated in this fest talked like they are going for a wedding in their family. In fact Vanigar community members kept on saying that it’s their daughter’s wedding. A very personalized way of talk about the almighty…kept reminding me that GOD is in me, u and everyone. After attending the wedding ritual that went on for all night I too felt the same. I walked with Elavarkuzali Amman (Goddess Parvathy) during the whole event. After the whole function it truly made me feel it's my sister's marriage. A German scholar friend Kerstin who was with me all the time too said that she felt the same. The satisfaction I cannot explain in the work. It’s for everyone to experience being a part of it. I learnt a lot of new things with this documentary.

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Contact Details
Arun Bose S
Ph: 0044 7865929837, Email: arunboses@gmail.com

Documentary films
Not a Drop of Rain – About 100 years of drought and lore in Kalahandi, Orissa. Produced by NFSC, Funded by Ford Foundation. Screened at NFSC.
Oh Tiraupati Listen – About the Mahabharatham festival of villages in and around Kanchipuram. Produced by NFSC for Kanchipuram Research Project by OSLO University, Norway. The film was well received at OSLO for a Workshop on Festivals.
Panguni Uttiram – About the Panguni Utiram festival celebrated at Ekambaranathar Temple, Kanchipuram. Produced by NFSC for Kanchipuram Research Project by OSLO University, Norway.
The Story of Mudugar – About the life of tribal group Mudugar
Moves, Blind Moves - About the life of a blind chess player, Dayalan,
Forever Heber - About the Culture and tradition of Bishop Heber Hall, MCC.
Man and Nature – Documentary film on Mannan Tribe, Kerala.

Short Concept films (Duration: less than 5 min)
My Paper Boat – Story of a little boy’s lose because of drought
The Artist – An artist’s stages of enlightenment and excitement.
Black/White/Brown – Celebration of equal opportunities.
The Butcher – A sad moment in butcher’s life.
Two ways together – A journey of two ends of life.
Is & Was – A definition for Man
Ups & Downs- A rat’s attempt to scale heights and falls.
Yours Truly – About a teacher and student.
Anthakshari – Celebration of diversity.
Mission Escape- A computer mouse trying to escape
Words – On the power of language.
Here we go – About inclusive society. Screened at Ability Foundation Fest.
V343 – A collection 3 funny short films
Chords of Life– A "Passion" statement.
Blue is Sky– A poetry on passion and love.
Face or Fall – A film on fear.
NextStop – A one min film on cruelty to animals


Short Films (less than 30 mins)
In Search of Peace – The story of an young man in search of peace.
My Mirror – A man’s life through his mirror’s point of view. Screened a fest by Multi-visual Academy

Ad/ Corporate Films
Men in Borland- Corporate Ad Film for Borland Technologies PVT LTD.
Corporate videos for Hexaware Technologies PVT. LTD.