A New Canvas and Vague Themes

I know that I’m quite late in writing or may be late in reacting to this but as one of my friends said “Do Not Forget and Do Not Let Others Forget”, so I think that this delay is quite justified. I am not a social custodian neither the self proclaimed curator of the art that we have lost and at the same time, I am not the one who holds some kind of authority in context of the Indian Society but nevertheless, I want to write about it, even if my words go unheard.

I am shattered to see whatever is happening around me. No… no… I am not talking in context of my personal or professional turmoil deep in me. The smoky streets, the terror struck people, the bloodshed and let me get a little harsh out here, The Massacre. I believe, it is important to keep the memories or experience of what they call it as the biggest terror attack so far tucked away in the minds of individuals but at the same time, it is equally important to break that shell and live for another day.

Yeah, it’s true that we shouldn't forget it and shouldn't let other forget it as well but what plays the role here? Pictures are worth a thousand words but how long do you want those words to live? Honestly speaking, being a photographer, I know the importance of pictures but I don’t want to look at those pictures or something similar for the rest of my life. You may conclude it as the impact of the pictures or may be a flaw in my insane might. But, I conclude that the real story extends beyond those flashlights, mega pixels, shutter speed, exposure and 35 MM format. These stories perhaps have no words at all. And, the Creator neither gave us the skills nor the rights to fill words in those innocent mouths.

What started as a deadly dance of death is going to end as some important people are getting a bit too involved while they are pulling the strings. I am sorry, but this was not just a dance of death. To many, it meant the life. It is also true that it changed life. Changes are not always negative. Think about a news reporter who has been dying to get a good story so that he can save his job in this horrific time of recession. This whole 60 hours of live ‘action’ spelt success for many of the people I personally know. It came in as a big opportunity for a reporter who was desperate for his job, for someone who wanted to explore a new arena in terms of his job aspect and for someone who wants to make a movie out of it.

What’s the use of reliving those 60 hours of terrorism? Is it the terror based theme of the movie that it will make it a box office hit or the star cast where we are expected to see all the leading names in the industry dramatically vying for the eyeballs in a recreation of Taj or Oberoi and making fun of the martyrdom of Major Sandeep, ATS Chief Hemant Karkare or top cops like Vijay and Ashok Kamte. Not to forget, there will be a romantic angle to this whole thing where in the cops might have met their respective wives and girlfriends before leaving in a melodramatic sequence and much more. If you are reading this Sir, then please no movies on this. It will be a matter of shame for the Indian armed forces that while they were inside, the LIVE coverage which was just a TRP strategy, provided lead to the terrorists of what is happening and what is not.

I am not a Mumbaikar or a Marathi Manoos but have been staying here for 4 years now on the mercy of Mr. Raj Thackrey. Yeah, one thing more, I had some respect for this guy who had the whole of Maharashtra under his influence but was nowhere to be seen when it came to Non-Marathi Manoos saving his city. If the sight of about 700 Non Marathi and Non Mumbaikars and the SMSes and mails saying the same failed to disrupt the law and order of this city then how would be by any chance, Mr. Kamal R Khan and his movie Deshdrohi would have done that. There should have been a clear divide. Those who are Pro MNS shouldn't have watched the movie, as simple as that.

Many of us are talking about the anger, spirit and resilience of the city but have we ever pondered that Mumbai is like that? The spirit of Mumbai comes in the scene, not because of the will of the Mumbaikars but for the simple reason that we aren’t left with a choice. We are forced to hit the offices for work the very next day because we have to. No one would like to take a risk of skipping a day and end up starving at home along with the entire family. Ideally, I think the phrase ‘Spirit of Mumbai’ shouldn’t be taken as granted thought it means nothing for a man who is running fast, changing his train at the overcrowded stations rushing past through the metals detectors quickly enough so that the security personnel don’t even hear a ‘Beep’.

A blast was reported in Assam, within a week of this attack. I guess, terrorists are pretty eager to the share the responsibility and the initiative of ‘not letting the others forget’. I tried to catch up with loads of people, over the phone, over the internet and, no offense, the ones who were there were proud to have been there spotting the convoy, the grenade, the guns or the smoke more than they were sorry for this loss which shattered hundreds of homes.

Someone recently asked me that why didn’t I go to get some pictures of the Taj burning down or clouds of smoke hovering over the monument. For a while, I did regret that I didn’t go to click pictures but then I realized, how a person would feel if he is being clicked naked and there is not much he can do to cover himself? As a photographer, I would have got a great picture with emotions, drama and all but as a human I should have covered it and should have even destroyed all the evidences that he was naked once.

The person in question is none other than our country, India while she is wailing trying to cover herself up with whatever is left out of the bombed, torn apart and blood soaked of her garment. We as her kids, are rejoicing, praising the commandos but everything is in context of the trauma she is going through and she can never get out of it if we keep on looking at the pictures that show the wounds on her face and discussing that it would have been either you or someone you know.

Take a new canvas and paint what you want your mother to see. I know that is not all, so take a step with your actions in that direction and bring that picture to reality. Turn it into a reality and this is the only way you can help yourself and the country.

God Bless Everyone!
Peace Out

Piyush Singh
www.piyushsingh.com

On Your B'day, Dad!

This goes on and on as a gift to my beloved father. It is something I had never done before. I never wrote him a poem or song when he was alive and since he is no more, there is an array of thoughts, added to which is a rhyme and rhetoric, comes in the scene. I wish I would have said all those words to you dad, when you were here with me. All those gifts which i gave you over the years are now meaningless because I had to gift fire to your pyre when you lay there motionless and, probably forcibly quite. This is porbably one of the gifts I have to offer which speaks beyond the volumes of materialism, because, I know I will be waiting with the candles on your birthday cake, till the candles doesnt sinks in the soft chocolate or may be blown off by you, or may be I will just wait endlessly beyond these two clauses. Love You and Wishing You a Happy Birthday, Dad!

Words deep inside,
The grave that is mine.
The echoes fail to reach him,
The tears so dry.

I waited for a prick,
To shatter the nightmare.
I saw the wrinkles so fresh,
And the deadly scare.

The last rose,
That I gifted to you.
Is been shedding tears,
Crying on its fate.

On your birthday, Dad,
I cry so hard.
My heart skips a beat,
And the veins bleed out.

I sat there screaming 'Foul'
While time played on.
Looking back at the moments,
A name among the dead.

The wishes that I'd ask for,
And the things that they were.
The pain goes deeper,
And burns under my skin.

I sail across the sea,
Hoping to see you there.
The hugs and the gifts,
And the moments to share.

On your birthday, Dad,
Been feeling the blues.
The destiny goes on,
And i follow the rules.

On your Birthday, Dad,
I miss you so.

Yours:
Piyush

Been Missing You Santa...

In my room
Through my window
I hear the gallops of Rudolph
I see the lights so mean
Fading knocks on the door
Is it You, Santa?

The tears from my eyes
And the pearls on my pillow
From the Building floor five
I have been falling sky high
With carols in graveyard
I miss you my Santa.

Its been a long
Moments have been dry
The stolen merries
And silent cries
Across the seas of change
Its been so long My Santa

The fog and the snow
The eyes are numb and white
The rose have gone dead
With stained drop of blood
I have been waiting
And I have been hating
Dad, its been a long
For you have been my Santa

Get the moments back to me
I promise I ll treasure them
I see my heart beating loud
Making me Run Around
With beats saying that
I' ll miss you my Santa

This one comes as a Dedication to my Dad because he has been my Santa and he will always be. I will miss him forever and may lightyears to come. Dad, I will for sure miss the chocolates tucked under my pillow on the christmas eve and the lighting coming from the Flour Mill where Santa used to live, atleast that's what you have told me. I hope you get to read this or just the feelings conveyed.

Piyush Singh

Diwali - A Year After

Hmmm, a year into blogging and things are still the same. I have been a curious fellow all this while and this time I landed up with varied dimensions of exploration, that didn’t seem to help anyway. I am still the same writer I used to be. The same name and the same style have slowly seeped in with time as my identity.

I still have those words engraved in my heart which I used for one of my posts in other blog of mine (café-xpression.blogspot.com and yeah it still exists). It was about Diwali and perhaps that’s why I sat down to write about Diwali all over again. I will just pick up the threads I left last year and it is not just about Diwali but about things which are more irrelevant than a festival that requires the entire family to be there at that point of time.
Wait, did I say that I m still the same? I guess there was some error there. I am so sorry I didn’t realize or may I didn’t want you to realize that I, Piyush Singh is no longer the son of Mr. A. K. Singh, I am referred to as son of Late Mr. A. K. Singh. Things have been going the way they want to and I feel like I am waiting by the side of a bonfire. The fire has long gone and now I am waiting for the cool breeze to pick up ashes of the unexplained unexpressed and put it up on my face.

I was made the head of the family in a moment’s time. Over the years, I have been so used to my dad while watching him glued to his cell phone receiving innumerous calls three days in advance of the occasion and the gifts when piled up consumed a big portion of the house. This time, it is all missing. I, my mom and bro are there in their claimed secluded corners and we respect the sound of silence. We try our best to muffle the sounds of cries but if the other gets to know, we don’t react to it. Strange, we all are actors and wearing a smile every time is getting tough for me each following day.

Life seems to be an eternal stage play for me now. It’s just that I am not the one who decided the roles I should play. At one point of time, I was asked by someone to play the role of a loser and that was quite recent. I still could feel those finger prints on my cheeks. The tears that never ceased to flow and the burn marks on my hands are never going to fade away. More ever the wounds on my hearts are the ones that still hurt.

Things flashed by so right and so often in my teary eyes. The foggy evening of Delhi makes me all the more nostalgic and now I have got some memories that I can dedicate to Ms. (You Know Who) and the coffee bar near the IIT Gate. I have come to terms to it but still I am not able to come to terms with a lot many things. One of my production houses will be named as Kaveesh Productions. I have hurt people the extent of them being breaking down.

I used to sit down next to the big French windows of my house in Mumbai and would stare at the distant lights night long till they were faded by the glow of the morning Sun. I would wait desperately for those words which make their way to my heart and put me at ease with myself. I didn’t even feel like looking at the mirror for a long time. Thanks to Vrinda, she has been a lovely sister and came handy. Indirectly, she did cast a spell of I would have given up. The major motivating factor was Shikha and the world she was leading me to. It was so close to me but the transition was painful.
It is Diwali season and the Idol buying spree will not be as good as it was supposed to be. Things have changed and so as the people. Home is not home anymore. It has been different all together now. Neither does he calls up, no matter how badly I expect it nor does he waits for me at the station. Anyways, I wont go on further in it and wishing you a Happy Diwali, it’s the eve of Diwali and I have to mentally prepare myself to live the legacy of my Dad and I guess I will be having a tough time sorting out the idols without him tomorrow.

Ooops, the power has gone and I guess I need to close it here. Argh, no candles too and I guess I forgot to tell you that’s because we are not celebrating Diwali this year. See, I told you, things are not the same.

A big hug and thanks to Shikha, for being around, for being mine and for being the most precious things to me. My dreams are exception. A kiss on cheeks and warm thanks to Vrinda, my newly found brand new sister for everything she does.

Always Yours

Piyush