A very heavy day. Full of information, sensorial, arterial, visceral. Of all those things that happened, I loved that phone call with TV, of pink Giraffe's, of Benares meets Diesel cherippu, classic articulation, my friend for life, that long call with DT, the way I became that floating string back in the air, that vulnerable kite, flying about with no direction or purpose, of how I can never base anything on life, of expecting absolutely nothing, being now and surrendering to nothingness, like that leaf flying about...this will be my life as I know it. Impermanence is the only thing I can count on. And ofcourse the ten fingers of my hand, the ten seconds that we have, nothing more, nothing less.
Then...
An epic evening. Unexpected. Chandrakanth, Inspector Jiganthar and me finally connect like three dots. Energies overwhelmingly powerful as we discuss ideas for a set of experimental films to be shot in the language of Viscera, subtitles open to receive topics ranging from Love, Fear, Loss, Disappointment, Anger, Politics. Of two friends talking in an unknown language, sometimes saying nothing, just listening to music. The electricity in the room was quite brilliant, Jean-Luc Ponty exploding through the Yamaha speakers, until we were disturbed by an uninvited visitor at 11pm, the cult of N. Singh. As soon as he entered, aural transfers went berzerk. He broke time. A third party- application. He would be that uninvited guest who roams around the city disrupting time and breaking connections by bringing his life's problems into the lives of others. He spoke with no filters revealing his innermost problems to strangers. After an uncomfortable confrontational episode, he left and we returned to the room to talk. Chand told me about N. Singh's wife who has apparently gone nuts. Then, from that thought, Chand was reminded of this very strange story of a boy who he once knew, who was in a coma for about five years, whose brain was operated (experimented) on fourteen times, his father and how he met him, man in white and white who was around the neighbourhood looking for a Xerox place, accidently landing up in Chand's office. A man part of the criminal intelligence outfit Octopus. All these people, their characters and their lives were out of a film. Of how Chand tried to teach painting to the "mentally withdrawn" child as he made labels on the painting with tags like sky, earth, river. Of how the brain is so fragile, a little out of balance and we have absolutely nothing. This boy has lost all memory and the only things that still remain are those basest of human experiences, the sun, the sea, the clouds, of how he would get up, lost, and want to leave to see Chand and not realise he is in his presence, of getting him out of the studio, circling the neighbourhood and coming back to calm the mind, of how he lost it totally due to his hate for his parents, breaking everything in Chands studio. Then those strings of serendipitous moments, both Chand and me saying "Who" at the same time, those brilliant sparks going off between Prax and me, as always, a type of visceral extravaganza everytime we meet. God is great for giving me this. And so much more. How can I ever be unhappy?
And in the end, as the three of us looked at the mic facing the wall, the only thought that crossed our minds is "When is the wall going to speak and say something, how much longer can a mic wait...?"
