Once upon a shoot...

The director clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Alright! This is the main scene! Iske bina, phillum adhoori rehegi! Without this, we are nothing. So, come on! I want a top notch performance!”

‘And that’s what you’ll get’ thought actress Nidhi as she got ready for the scene. The director was a tubby, childish-looking man, who was good at heart, but proud. This showed in two ways, his tried (but failed) attempt to act like a sophisticated director, and again another failed attempt to fit into tight pants and force a belt on – though this was obviously more for the show.

But this time, she didn’t blame the director for acting this way. This was the crucial part of the film, the one that bound the whole thing together. The one she was about to mess up. She had tried hard not to face the fact, but there was no way of getting around it. She melted from the inside just by looking at the famous actor. Aditya was his name. A simple name that spoke of brilliance. And it was this very brilliance that caused him to be a heartthrob for girls all over the nation. She couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t be able to. Of course, she had ample time for this scene, the director, Mr. Roy, had set a whole day apart for it. But this fact didn’t help, it just added pressure.

Mr. Roy had been kind, but firm: This was the film that would be the turning point in his career. If it wasn’t a hit, his career, his dream, as a director would be over. So, for this mega-important movie, he had gone searching for the best actors and actresses – Aditya, the already loved heartthrob, and Nidhi, a new, but extremely talented, and promising pick. The idea behind the movie was simple. Preeta (Nidhi Joshi) and Armaan (Aditya Arvind) were childhood friends. Armaan’s father was a policeman, who taught both his son and Preeta about fire-arms and how to use them. Their friendship faded when Preeta moved away. Many a years later, due to a riot which occurred, they met again, but not as friends, as enemies. They were leaders of two large angry groups with opposing opinions over the riot. It got especially complicated as it had involved Armaan’s father. For a long time they communicated angrily with each other, not knowing who the leader of the other group was; however when they met face to face for a fight, things changed…they fell in love. It was a love story. ‘But that’s all it is!’ Nidhi reminded herself angrily, ‘a story! I can’t actually fall in love with the actor!’ Somehow, that never stayed in her head.

She had worked with Aditya in other scenes, but with other people, not just them alone. There was another problem, Aditya, whom directors praised to be a pleasure to work with, had become moody. He was just completely uninterested in the film.

“Chalo, Nidhi! Let’s go! Stop dreaming!” Mr. Roy shouted. The pretty girl nodded, sighed and went to the place of action.  

“3,2,1 Action!”

Aditya said his dialogues in a convincing, yet somewhat dull manner. He wanted to get this over with. Nidhi inhaled deeply, waiting for her chance, any moment now… But when the time came, she froze. ‘Look at his face, at his face!’ she told herself, but to no avail. She stared fixedly at his feet.

“CUT!” Mr. Roy sighed, “Focus! Focus!”

Nidhi nodded. She had repeated these lines to herself all morning, she just had to rattle it all out, with some feeling. She had to convince herself that she loved Aditya. ‘That’s not hard’ she thought, and smiled to herself.

“Lights, Camera, Action!”

The bored actor repeated his lines, while Nidhi secretly admired his posture, muscles and cool hairstyle. When it was her turn, she spoke her lines with all her feeling (which was not much, at the moment), but focused the whole time on the handsome actor’s ankles!!

“No! NO! NAHIN! Nidhi! Look into his eyes! You love him! Tum usse pyaar karthi ho! PLEASE!” Mr. Roy bellowed.

Nidhi looked down sheepishly. She tried her best the next time, and concentrated on Aditya’s nose, but got caught anyway. In the fourth take, she looked above his head, but that was noticed as well.

Before the fifth attempt, the plump director got off his chair and lumbered towards Nidhi. He was shorter than her, but looked at her with an air of superiority. “Nidhi, tumhe kya ho raha hain? What is happening to you? You’ve always gotten it right in the first take, panch toh bhool jao (forget five)! Just because I said we had the whole day, doesn’t mean it has to take that long! Look into his eyes, how hard is that?!”

Aditya, who had had experiences feeling nervous while acting, teased, “I’m not so ugly, you know.” But the stressed Mr. Roy took the joke seriously, “Exactly! He’s not ugly! Sundar hain voh! He is beautiful! That is why he is loved! He’s good-looking, a great actor! It is an honour to work with him for a debut movie!” Aditya realized his joke had fallen flat, “Sir, please relax! It happens sometimes! She’ll get it right this time.” But he looked at Nidhi while saying this, making it clear that he too, was getting slightly weary at repeating his lines.

Finally, the actors took their places.

“Blah..blah..blah..Action!”

Aditya repeated his lines slowly with more enthusiasm and emotion, giving time for Nidhi to prepare. ‘His eyes, his eyes’ she thought. And slowly forced her eyes to meet his. And then it was all gone, all forgotten. It was as though she had never prepared, like it was her first time. She got lost within his eyes. Somewhere down, she realized that it was over, her career. She couldn’t even TALK in front of this actor, on or off screen. She would never be able to do any other film. She had just signed her ticket back home. She had wasted a good opportunity.

It felt like they stood there forever. Nidhi forced her eyes down, so that Aditya wouldn’t see her glistening eyes. Why? Why her? Why now? After the tears had cleared, she looked back up at the actor, waiting for his reaction. He nodded slightly, indicating she could still say her lines. She inhaled deeply, she’d give it a try. But just as she had parted her lips to start, it hit, with force. Laughter, waves and waves of it. Both hero and heroine, were chortling away with absolutely no reason. It went on and on. “Oh-oh, my God!” Aditya exclaimed after he got a slight hold of himself, “your look…” But he was hardly able to finish his sentence for they collapsed into another fit of giggles.

They had no idea that they were being recorded the whole time. The first bewildered Mr. Roy turned into a pleased one, and was exclaiming, “Beautiful! That was natural. More natural than the lovey-dovey dialogue!!” When the actors finally got over their giggle fit, it was their turn to be surprised…

After some discussion between everyone, certain things were decided and changed. At the end of the day everyone came out grinning, Nidhi had a slight bounce in her step, and Aditya couldn’t stop chuckling to himself at random times.

Of the year, only one film seemed to get exceptionally good reviews.

“Mohabbat Ka Yudh is a delight to watch, a great mix of comedy, drama, and love…well done!”

“…A wonderful experience watching it….it got my full attention, and I ended up slopping all my cold coffee down my best t-shirt, without realizing, for I feared that Preeta would not get well in time…”

“…Just shows that Girish Roy has a lot more potential than let on…Plus, the amazing chemistry between the two actors just caused the whole film to click together, they must truly be good friends..’

And they were .

  

  

On emoticons

For ages, art has been one of the main methods through which people can express their feelings, themselves. Every brushstroke, every scribble of a pencil, adds a new emotion. One instance that can speak a thousand words.

It can be as simple as a smiling face to show that someone’s happy, to dark colors thrown in an abstract way to show their deep confusion.

As technologies improve, there has been yet another way to express yourself through pictures….. Emoticons.

My first experience with these curious faces and pictures was when I got my first email account. I was so fascinated by those faces that I add them unnecessarily to every email that I sent.

Then of course, I joined Facebook. People may say that Facebook is a waste of time, that it rots your brains, maybe so, but it definitely helps you learn your emoticons.

For my first few chats it would be the basic happy face [ :)] or sad face [:(]. But my dear friends taught me many more faces and pictures, from hearts [ <3 ], to sharks [ (^^^) ], to penguins [ <(“)  ], from devils [ 3:) ] to angels [ O:) ] ….

I had a great time in the beginning, pestering whoever I could to show me more emoticons and how to make them.

However, at that time it was limited only to Facebook, and Gmail. Now, you can see a number of these familiar faces in my diary as well.

Adults are also getting into the practice, with my mom exploring them a little, herself (as she now proudly tells me!)

It’s just a surprise how small things like these, impact our every day lives, and just add a smile to our faces :).

Artist in you!

‘Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.’

                                                       - Pablo Picasso

Pablo Picasso, renowned artist, quoted these wise words, which could not have been truer. Children, open-minded, bring new ideas to the world, new ways of looking at things, that otherwise wouldn’t have existed. These thoughts get muffled as they grow older, for there are older, supposedly wiser influences, who teach one proper way of looking at things.

I recently attended a camp in the theatre/auditorium Ranga Shankara. It lasted for barely six days, and only two hours daily, that too. But I can’t deny that I haven’t learnt anything new. It was titled ‘Dreams and Drama’ and well-known director, Padmavati Rao, alias Pinty Akka, was our instructor.

The first day started out with a slight case of jitters. But we started getting comfortable when we got the chance to walk around, greet random people, and shout out our names loudly with ‘full josh’! We were partnered that day, and had to enact our own stories of times when we didn’t get what we wanted.

Sadly, all the feedback my partner and I received was not necessarily that great. On the other hand, I learned the sense of acute observation the audience carried.

We decided to explore the ‘Magic in me’ through writing and questioning. What is it that makes me special? Why can I do the things I can? How do I bring it out more?

The last question was answered. We used theatre as a medium to express our dreams, our desires.

The final play my group (we had to work in groups of 5), was pretty crazy. Two monkeys wanting to go to space got their dream by drinking Redbull that was dropped by a drunken astronaut in space. In the end, it turned out to be more like an ad for Redbull. However, it definitely brought out the ‘Magic in us’.

The play may have been completely irrelevant, but to come up with an idea like that is not done by mere Muggles. (Non-magic people)

I know I certainly could not have thought of a wacky idea like that on my own!

When Pablo Picasso talked of artists, he didn’t just mean the brushing, painting one. He meant the writing, singing, dancing, swimming, playing ones. Pretty much, EVERYONE.

And though, you may be an adult, you never stop growing up, so it’s never too late to grasp the artist in you!

When...

When the world comes down, down, down
You are struggling to get up
Show your strength
And don't give up

When you're way too far
Seems like you can't win
Show your grit
And don't give in

When you're on the brink
Losing all you know
Show your faith
And don't let go

When it's tears, and fears
Such a long while
Show your courage
And try to smile

Capture - Between me and my camera

Capture the beauty of all things alive
Capture the passion - for which we strive
Capture the colours, the sea and the sky
Capture the dreams, and then you will fly

Tunes of life

Her fingers are small, white, and bony. They’re quick and alert and do all the things fingers can. They bend and fold and stuff like that. And still they’re special – they dance.

It’s amazing to see the way her fingers can prance and jump and hop over the black and white keys. It’s as if they have a mind of their own – they know where to go!

But the dance isn’t the main part; it’s what comes out of it. Her fingers create a world when they dance, a world not to see, nor feel, but to hear. Her fingers create music.

The area outside my school store was open. In other words, there was no roof, but otherwise it was closed on all four sides. One of the walls had 2 big carved-out circles – created to look good. There were two strong black rods between each circle. It came in handy when we were climbing through the circle. All the students used to climb in and out while playing games, but my friends and I had a different purpose.

We would seat ourselves down on the lower rod, and hold the upper one.  And then it would start. Our singing. We were singing buddies. And every lunch break we made it a point to sing our favorite. Alejandro.

My mom would hum the tune again and again. I would listen and try out, stumbling over keys until I found the right one. Sometimes I would keep going late into the night. If you were there, you would have seen a tiny black-haired girl on a piano next to a fireplace, slowly humming to herself. Sooner or later she would be playing a melody on the piano – one that matched the tune she was singing.

It was the only instrument I could get any noise out of. I was aiming for clarinet, or flute, or maybe even saxophone. I got stuck with the oboe.

Trust me, even when I nodded and agreed to join the school band, the only thing I was thinking of was how the instrument sounded like a waling baby.

My parents found the noise funny. My brother laughed too. I was angry too. It wasn’t THAT bad. But I was frustrated. I couldn’t get the ‘F’ note properly.

It took practice, and finally, finally, it worked. I got the note. And I performed. It was awesome.

Songs bring back memories. Memories of going down long smooth roads.  Memories of rushing to the car during chilly winters, because my hair had turned to ice after my swim class.

Before the lyrics come to me, the images do. Every single thing related to the song, and me.

When I thought I was leaving everything I had behind in U.S., I was wrong. These songs came with me, and along with them came my whole life. 

A friend in the speed - a short story by Priya Saraff

I met the man on the Metro.

He was gazing at me intently, so absorbed in his gaze that he didn’t even notice the reproachful looks I was giving him; either that, or he didn’t care. I wished someone would come and block me from his view, but nobody noticed that he was staring at me. 

He kept at the staring for so long; I started wondering why he didn’t get bored of it. And yet…there was something about the way he did it. He did it ever so carefully; an attempt to soak in all details of an image. It was more of an examination rather than ogling, I decided. He seemed to take his time in the whole process, and yet managed to take a whole body scan of me.

Suddenly the train stopped, an announcement was made and the man was gone.

The next day, my family and I met the man in the Metro again. This time he was observing a light-blue bag. Seeing the man at work, I realized how meticulously he did it. Curiosity bubbled in me. Why? Why did he inspect things like that? What was so special in a bag?

I leaned towards Mama, who was standing next to me, holding the same pole that I was grasping. “Why does that man observe things that way Mama? It’s as though he’s studying it!” Mama’s gaze followed my pointed finger. She tilted her head and gave a thoughtful, “Hmmm…”

As we got closer to our destination, the crowd in the train started clearing out. Papa, Mama, and I managed to grab a four-seater, and I had an empty seat next to me. “May I sit?” an extra polite voice asked. I looked up to see a tall, well-built man with chestnut colored skin, ruffled black hair and shocking, but cheerful green eyes. The staring man was in front of me!

“I…yeah…of course’ I replied, taken aback. The man’s eyes crinkled in amusement but he kept quiet. As he settled down, I saw he had wrinkles, but something made me feel that rather than old age, they were from experience.

For a while we traveled in silence, Mama, a very busy woman, was tapping away at her mobile, probably sending 1000 emails per minute; Papa was reading a book, my neighbor and I sat silently.

“Autumn!” Papa’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “Autumn, see this, isn’t it gorgeous?” he handed his book, a short hardcover, to me. “Turn to page 139” he said. I started flipping through the pages but stopped at 67, for there was a beautiful picture of a young girl, with a dangly earring looking at me. I stroked the picture. “What are trying to say?” I asked the girl in the picture softly, but continued turning the pages, until I arrived at 139. The book, I discovered, was one of paintings. Page 139 hosted Mona Lisa. Under the image was a small description of the painting and artist. I read the text, and looked at Papa, whose blue eyes were gleaming.

“I’ve seen this picture a lot of times, on all kinds of objects” I informed him. “Autumn! Yes, but isn’t it marvelous?” Papa asked eagerly, and took the book from my hand. I shrugged, “Looks the same” I replied. “Pshaw!” my father threw my opinion aside. I heard a chuckle from my neighbor, but he said nothing.

“You don’t see the beauty” Papa sighed. It was true; I didn’t care for art in the least, yet the girl on page 67 had somehow reached out to me…“Papa, wait!” I grabbed the book, and shuffled to page 67, “She’s amazing!” I declared. “Ah, yes…The girl with a pearl earring…Vermeer…It’s a classic.” he admired the artwork.

Papa turned to our neighbor, “And you? Do you enjoy art?” The man responded readily, “Oh yes, I’m a painter, but not by profession.” Papa applauded, “Lovely!” he exclaimed.

Through more probing we found out that the man’s name was John Creswell, and he was an engineer by profession. He was new to the city, and stayed with his family in a guest house. He used the Metro to get to his work and back.

Papa and I used the Metro to get to his job and my school. Due to our overlapping timings, we saw a lot of John. And we slowly became good friends.

Once, on my request, John brought a small oil-painting of his. It was a spring scene and it was simply gorgeous. I saw his true talent. 

John was a good observer, and kept bringing Papa and me small tales and events that he used to see, or be a part of.  It wasn’t until a particularly bright winter day, however, when things finally changed.

It was Friday. Papa and I met John on our way back home. John stood straighter and taller, and his eyes sparkled more that day. “I quit my job!” he exclaimed, “After a chat with a friend, I decided it was for the better. I’m going to have my own art studio and attend Art College.”

Papa smiled.

“I also plan to move from the guest house, though I don’t know where to. I need a peaceful place” the artist informed us.

“Are you thinking of an apartment or house?” Papa inquired.

“I want to buy a house” John replied. “Any suggestions?”

Papa gazed out the Metro window thoughtfully, while I tried to recall all serene neighborhoods that I could. Then it came to me, “How about Evergreen?” I asked, “The houses are really cozy, safe, and pretty large, and it’s in the suburbs with lots of greenery.”

Papa nodded, “Any empty houses?”

“Well, Kaylie’s neighbor moved out a week ago, and Brianna moved out a month ago, I think the house is still empty.” I told them.

“I know some brokers.” Papa said and whipped out his mobile, and started tapping in numbers. After a few calls he nodded, “It’s all set.” John didn't even get a chance to resist.

For the next few weeks, Papa and John went around with a few people, and though I couldn’t go along, Papa kept me informed. One day, he came in with happy news, “John’s bought Brianna’s old house!’

After settling down, John invited our family to his house, which was a beauty. We got to meet his gracious wife, Laila, his cute kids (7 year-old twins) Delia and Austin, and his gentle giant of a dog, Max. He showed us around his art studio, which was on the 2nd floor of the house. A huge room. From paintings of famous artists to quotes to art supplies, it seemed to have everything!

The one and major downside of the move, was that we wouldn’t be able to meet John on the Metro anymore. His college was on another line, and his art studio was at home. However, we managed to catch him once for a few minutes, when he thanked us all immensely.

It was the last time I ever saw him.

************************************************************************

‘World renowned artist breathes his last.’

The big, black letters stared at me, as I settled down for breakfast one morning. I drank my orange juice and blinked sleepily.

Years had gone by since I had last seen John. I was now married and had a three-year old daughter of my own, Lucie.

“That’s sad” my husband David remarked as he peered over my shoulder at the bold headline. He picked up the newspaper and read aloud, “John Creswell, 86, passed away yesterday due to a cardiac arrest. The artist, who had been staying at Seeker’s hotel during a tour, was rushed to Palls Hospital at 5:30 pm, he died 2½ hours later. Creswell, who is considered as one of the greatest artists of the 21st century, is known for his works like Fast Friends, Ball Gown, Lullaby, and others. He is known for his unique style and brush technique….."

But I didn’t hear the rest. John? One of the greatest artists? Why not?

The depressing truth was, the moment John had walked away from that Metro door so many years back, so did any love or interest I had ever had for art.

Life had gone back to normal with its quiet Metro rides.

The thought could be considered sad, and it was, but my focus went on to my friends and school. I prepared hard, did well, and I was successful. I was an engineer, the job John had never wanted.

“Honey, what about it?” David’s voice disrupted my thoughts.

“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

“There’s a John Creswell exhibition in Rainview Hall at 6:30 on Friday. I could book tickets online.” David listed out the details.

I checked my own calendar, “Fine. I’m free on Friday after 5:30.” I confirmed.

I heard a pitter-patter of steps, follower by a squeal, “Daddy! Good morning!”

“Cupcake!” David called, held out his arms, and in rushed Lucie.

I watched fondly as they tickled, hugged and cuddled each other.

“Cupcake, 6:30, on Friday evening, we’re going to go to an art exhibition.”

Lucie frowned. “Art ebiski-zibi-what?!”

David chuckled, “Exhibition. It means we get to see works of a great artist.”

“An artist. That’s what I’ll be!” Lucie declared.

David ruffled her hair, “Yes! Of course!”

Lucie had acquired an interest and love for art that neither David nor I had.

The next day, David came to me and told me that the tickets had been booked. Friday evening arrived very fast.

Before I knew it, the three of us were standing in a long but fast-moving line out side Rainview Hall. Soon enough a lady was collecting our velvety-red tickets. “Hope you enjoy!” she chirped.

Then we entered the hall. I had never seen Rainview, which hosted several exhibitions, as filled, with people or paintings.

Hoards of people crowded around the artworks, so we moved to a less congested area. 

We first saw Fast Friends. It was a water-colour of seven pals, running towards a fast-food restaurant. It was raining in the background and the seven were running over a cobbled road. I smiled at John’s quirky sense of humor.The three women and four guys all looked different, and when I leaned closer I saw a man with Papa’s round, blue eyes. Coincidence, or not, I wasn’t sure.

We then moved onto Ball Gown.

Here, the theme was a romantic dance, and the main couple shone in the spotlight. I thought I saw Laila and John in them. The lady, wearing a silky purple gown, had Mrs. Creswell’s silky brown hair, and the tuxedo-laden man had the artist’s jade-green eyes. The lady was falling back into a graceful swoon, and the man’s hand supported her. There were other couples in the background, and I believed one looked like Mama and Papa dancing, though I couldn’t be too sure.

Apart from these two, only three other paintings were on really large canvases.

The third was called Max, and was Lucie’s clear favorite. As I expected, it was a beautifully done portrait of the Creswell’s adorable black lab.“I like him, can I get a dog like him?” Lucie asked. David ruffled her hair and smiled, “Maybe Cupcake, I want one too.” 

The fourth painting was titled ‘Welcome home, visitor’, and was a gorgeous oil painting of a butterfly on a large lavender orchid that grew in the artist’s garden. “Wow” David said as he stared at the magnificent wings of the creature.

The last of the large canvases was supposedly John’s best, but was continuously being mobbed by viewers and fans, blocking it from our view. Lucie kept insisting on seeing it, and I too wanted to, so finally around 8:00 o’clock, when the crowds had started to depart, we squeezed through to get a glance at the painting. I held onto Lucie, and the three of us made our way to the front.

David, already next to me, stared at the painting, “Honey…”

I got a good look at the painting and dropped my bag in shock…

The setting was a train, a Metro to be precise. I recognized the wide windows, powerful doors, and the colorful seats of my day.

One seat, at the edge of the canvas, bore a sky-blue bag, the same that John had observed, oh so long ago. I could almost feel the folds of the fabric, as if it were actually there.

Nobody but a tall, lean, girl was in sight.

There was a silver pole off the center of the painting, and one of the girl's slim arms was circling it.

The girl had her head gently rested against the pole. Locks of wavy light brown hair, illuminated by rays of sunlight that was pouring in from a window behind her, fell on the girl’s shoulder. Some of her hair covered her face, but two almond-shaped amber eyes were visible, and they gazed downwards. The girl had fair skin, a slender nose, and a small mouth, which was gently closed. Her other arm hung loosely at her side, and her knees were slightly bent.

I could see the effort John had put in. Through neat brush strokes he got the whole picture, especially the fabric, to come alive. I could nearly feel the softness of the girl’s cotton top, and coziness of her well-worn jeans.

The startling thing was that I knew the girl. I used to see her when I looked at myself in the mirror in my school days. She was there in all my childhood photos. And here she was again. Waves of nostalgia hit me so hard, I nearly stumbled.

David put a hand on my shoulder, “Look at the name of the painting, honey.”

I looked up to see John’s bold, but loopy letters form a touching title.

A friend in the speed. 

BY: Priya Saraff