Childhearted

He walked into a new world of people from cities he had only heard off.
His idea of bad people was very different from those from the city. His idea of music were the sounds he heard in the movies and Ganpati visarjans. He was a baby until he entered this new world. What people said was taken at face value, promises were meant to be kept, women would come with a love story of their own and one would catch his attention to never leave. The new world was all about survival. He had friends who never left and a girlfriend who never existed. He chased her though, he did, for a long
time that too, and no one else was allowed after. Friends took his story ahead. He built walls and never let anyone break them. He wasn't familiar with the melancholy silence brought until now. He toughened up and slowly buried all that hurt. It pricked at intervals but time has a way of settling things.

He murmured in chaos and in silence. He couldn't love after. A couple of women came and went but he was unaffected. Probably grew tougher.
The child in him died. He grew a ruffled beard and a prickling moustache. His voice grew deeper. His stories were now fabricated. Indifference separated him from self recognition. Dry leaves and added substances took over and in that did he find his identity.

Life as he knew it had been relearnt and philosophies were amended. Now, when he has found his corner, he is mine. Not entirely but most of him. For a while now. The child in him is reborn when the doors are locked. The toughened heart let goes of all miseries. The dry leaves and added substances can wait. The heart wants more affection. Cuddles for him are a sigh of relief. I am more than a friend. It means something to him when I'm not his for a night.
But he won't say a word. He won't walk out. He will let go.

Probably the indifference does still exist. All walls have not been broken, and never will be. Scars of the past reflect habit when he reacts. He doesn't trust his own self. His beliefs have mellowed.

The acceptance he submits to breaks my heart. It is that child in him that I see, and children must never be harmed or affected. He must never be at the receiving end of artificial adulthood. He is more human and forgiving at the same time.

He is the kinds you'd never give up on.
He is fragile and delicate.
He is beautiful!

He will go, one day, but when he does he'll break all walls and build new ones.
Yes.

A Father’s Letter To His Son

Patience. A word, which reminds me of my past and questions

my present. I taught my cubs how to run, hunt, fight, stand up for themselves and answered every little question I was asked. Really, after all I’m the only one who could’ve answered them. Questions ranging from why a bird chirps to why the stone looks grey to why other animals didn’t look like you and I. I taught you two that there are all sorts of animals around us and you can’t treat every animal the same. Patience now, however, has a new meaning. It is now an unfulfilled expectation that should’ve protected my old bones. But how do I tell you? The protector that I am, I must camouflage my weaknesses. This story will answer why I never received the patience I expected and you are raised to be the royal one that you are.

There was a time when your brother and I would go for walks in the jungle. One day, we went hunting. The courageous boy that he was, he never told me about the bullies. The sensitive cub that he was, he’d get picked on again and again. As a parent, one just trusts their child to such an extent that a tiny hindrance in his life would be shared. The bullies were the sort of wild wolves that live with vengeance for the lack of a luxurious lifestyle. A pack of wolves began to growl reeking of the filth in their minds. The tear in my son’s eyes was enough to reveal everything that disturbed him. That was my reason, my window, to fight for every teardrop he wept. But the more the wolves would growl, the farther the window would shift away. Torn apart that I was, I plunged onto the wolves, the giant leap that slapped me so hard, it scarred me for life. I silenced the wolves. I wasn’t wrong was I? How could I have watched my son getting tormented, when all my life, I have fought against all odds only to watch him smile? But I guess it was a job horribly done. Within a week, one of the wolf’s family members slaughtered my son. It was then did I realize that the bullying was all for an ancestral revenge that wasn’t called for.

The news was unbearable. It is a curious thing, the death of a son. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to the only one you’ve survived for. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things. My legs started to shiver but I ran. I ran as fast as I could to the peak, the cliff, where all you could hear was your mind and my mind was filled with chaos and the unforgettable growls. Where you could roar your lungs out and not a soul could hear you. It is in that place, where isolation and melancholy are in sync and you breathe those energies hoping for pacification and consolidation. I began to have vivid images of how brutally they could’ve ripped my son apart. I couldn’t bear the loss, my legs were still shivering and I gradually collapsed on the edge. I woke up to assorted animals staring at me wondering whether their king was alive. I had asked for light but this was blinding. The blurry faces and gleaming light brought me back to my consciousness and I quietly got up from there while the voices were still ringing in my head. I did not have the courage to look at anyone straight into their eyes when I was the reason their new king happened to compensate for the wolf’s dinner. The lion was now a lamb.

Today, I am almost on my deathbed. I still wake up, staring at the white and blue ceiling without walls, to those growls, those voices that have left a scar in my mind reminding me of how everything I have ever done had been washed for an action I never could take back, for an action that did not give a second chance, for an action that has instilled so many fears in me, for an action because of which you have been brought up to be the lion you are now. In time, I had formed my type. I faked it, yelled at you, tried my best to measure you with great accuracy, evaded the uncomfortable and glossed over the painful padding the historic records of my sorrows and accomplishments. As much as I subjected you to the display of rich, so did I manifest sarcasm when that was the last thing you needed. I tried my best to teach you lessons even at moments you couldn’t have absorbed but even now I will believe that I have always been right and will be, never more than immediately after I have been wrong.

I write to you seeking forgiveness for everything and accept all the decisions I ever took for you. Had I told you this before, maybe you would’ve been a little more patient and understanding with me and answered those millions of questions I’d shoot at you each time you returned home just the way I did when you were a cub. Its too late now but I hope you channelize your patience towards your child. There is a lot more to fatherhood that is left unsaid but is necessary in the journey of life.

Love,

Mufasa.

He is that guy!

His sense of humour is shit. His physique is disproportionate. His way of speaking is unchivalrous.
His dreams are morbid. His past is frightening. His eyes are silent. His walk is lousy. His height is average.
He is that guy!

He is thunder and lightening. He ignites all there is in you. He makes you melt. He is wild and fiesty. He is mild but nasty. He creeps into you and sinks in with time. He makes you want to love and hate yourself. He is a child. He is that guy!

He is comforting. He is soft. He is caring. He is a protector. He is around when no one else is. He is profound. He is sensitive. He cries. He is powerful. He is lively. He is life.
He is that guy!

He disappears. He is promiscuous. He is stagnant. He is cruel. He walks out on you. He is moody. He decides. He controls. He is indifferent. He is inconsiderate. He is a blur.
He is that guy!

He stays. He cuddles. He cooks. He expresses. He writes. He reads. He kisses. He smiles. He understands the hunger in your eyes. He is a fool. He is a clown. He is a mask. He is a clone. He is perfect. He is a wonder.
He is right out of a romantic movie. He is his audience. He is fragile. He is human. He is that guy!

He is angry. He is unhappy. He is fire and also the ashes of consequence. He is the remainder. He is ignorant. He is beyond. He is distress. He is a nightmare. He is that occasional teardrop. He is the negative. He is black with a smear of red. He is heartless. He is an asshole.
He is that guy!

He is my longing. He is a dream. He is love. He is an angel. He is distance. He is separation. He is existent in a world unknown. He is a paradox. He is the paradigm. He is change. He is not mine. He is that last wish. He is guilt. He is nostalgia. He is a fond memory. He is on the other side. He is crass. He is the greener grass. He is a snob. He is a womanizer. He is all I want.
He is that guy!

If Shah Rukh Khan ever asked me why I’m in the field of Media

Because I’m a misfit anywhere else.

Not for the sole reason of not being able to do any other task to my expectations but because I know I won’t be happy living or what I’d call surviving in any other place of work or may I add, ‘Time’.

I love learning. I do react to learning at my own pace because teething is not a very happy or polite phase to be in but I love how it pushes my determination levels to limits I wouldn’t have known of otherwise.

I tend to have this greed for being the occasional know-it-all, and the best way to learn that is through experience. I want to know of the various elements that go into making a film or creating an experience not just in theory but also putting it forward to and audience and allow them to decide if it is really a pleasant experience after all. 

I’m sure that if I’m convincing enough, I could probably walk upto a friend’s rich businessman father who sponsor my entire film to such an extent that I could hire a small focused crew to help express what I’ve been dying to tell from the bottom of my heart to the very same audience, but what I also know is that I will not learn of the tiny elements of chaos like I am learning of now, then. Its only in this learning as an Assistant Director or an intern in a fancy organization will I learn of the challenges that need to be faced to bring out someone else’s story out in the form of a good quality film.

Tomorrow or at a later date, when I realize that I’ve pretty much gotten the hang of all the elements of making a film, I would want to experience a large team of people working their lives out to fulfill my little dream of sharing my kind of stories. I want to then be at the receiving end of sheer deception, indifference, melancholy, sorrow and at the same time obtain unconditional love, confidence, faith and the feeling of being wanted. And I want it to show in my stories and style of filmmaking. Not that I’ve mastered any of the tasks I’m having to do now, but even once I get them right and touch higher job profiles, regardless of all the unintended errors in the output, I want to feel the outrage and countless ‘letting go’s that it has taken out of everyone to make what I’ve always wanted to.

For all you know, I may not even get that far due to infinite probabilities of unforeseen circumstances, but then again, atleast I know I tried. For my fear of reaching poverty, I might switch dreams and grow up a little to earn a buck here and there, but I know I gave it all I had and I may walk away with unfulfilled dreams and I’m okay with that if I can accept that I’m not walking away with unattempted desires, and it is for that wholesome need that I am in this field.