tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61191209795518363712024-02-07T09:07:55.269+05:30Chotu SingGao beta GaoTilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-86346967688571787692015-12-02T00:52:00.000+05:302015-12-02T14:46:30.921+05:30TRANSIT DAYS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every time you depart</div>
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You neatly pack</div>
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every piece of your belonging</div>
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into your bag</div>
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and I am all over the place</div>
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You calmly </div>
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calculate back </div>
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and pack</div>
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the last few hours </div>
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of being together</div>
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I'm restless<br />
and hungry </div>
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while you time</div>
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the duration of our last meal together</div>
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the duration of our (real) kisses </div>
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(real) embraces</div>
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the drive to the (wretched) airport</div>
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I'm lost</div>
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all over the place</div>
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singing crying </div>
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or rather trying </div>
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to develop a strategy</div>
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of dealing with it<br />
Every time we meet</div>
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Every time we part</div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-13679156696091621262015-02-08T13:03:00.000+05:302015-02-08T13:03:10.861+05:30You are successful if you have<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
enough money to take a flight<br />
and enough time to travel by train<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-20928391996159170212014-12-12T09:53:00.002+05:302014-12-12T10:07:05.492+05:30A boy I know<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A boy I know used to work for a society called SCRUBS. They are into environmental stuff. As a routine exercise, they go to the beach and pick Olive Ridley turtles up and re-direct them to the sea so that they do not walk to the busy roads and get killed by speeding cars. They are near extinction, he informed me. The following is an excerpt from a recent conversation:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">Boy: I want to eat everything. My aim is to eat new things and see new things. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">So I eat and I travel. I have eaten dogs and rabbits and cranes and frogs and I want to eat all those insects they show on TLC ...pause...mischievous grin... I have also eaten turtle legs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;">Me: You have eaten turtle legs!!! HOW! Didn't you have any moral dilemmas! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Boy: Yes, I have eaten turtle legs. I didn't eat the Olive Ridley turtles though. But I think you should eat them before they become extinct.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8gLrmghRNUz78eUl2-LyiEPXd4u2FmvB5XB73g9vXBexBeHHJ1occpk4pGx9-_hjPdrlen_964o4Kn5jFeoOe00NYmacn8O8rGsilUph8KCJ1Nzf6co8IaqOfclMceuCKrq19DgKwQY0/s1600/olive-ridley-turtle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8gLrmghRNUz78eUl2-LyiEPXd4u2FmvB5XB73g9vXBexBeHHJ1occpk4pGx9-_hjPdrlen_964o4Kn5jFeoOe00NYmacn8O8rGsilUph8KCJ1Nzf6co8IaqOfclMceuCKrq19DgKwQY0/s1600/olive-ridley-turtle.jpg" height="400" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: www.indiasendangered.com</td></tr>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-66056725269905840242014-05-27T16:49:00.001+05:302014-05-27T16:50:13.923+05:30Pieces of this puzzle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Pieces of this puzzle<br />
were lost long ago<br />
and we kept looking<br />
for parts<br />
that didn't exist<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-20085897594510996662014-05-16T23:50:00.001+05:302014-05-16T23:50:48.760+05:30May 16, 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dad - Yeh election Modi ne nahi, udyogpatiyon ne jeeta hai<br />
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Ma - I haven't cried all day but I cant hold back my tears anymore<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-71356461258161563162014-04-18T16:29:00.000+05:302017-06-23T14:06:39.861+05:30Dust dunes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I<br />
<br />
Watching the moon ride<br />
with us outside the window<br />
of our train<br />
We had kissed<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
I remember that night<br />
for we had met between<br />
intervals of parting<br />
<br />
We had met with<br />
that same feeling<br />
in our stomachs<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-60022134137811797052014-04-10T23:54:00.001+05:302014-04-10T23:54:17.859+05:30Voters' Pledge <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We, the citizens of India, having<br />
abiding faith in democracy,<br />
hereby pledge to uphold the<br />
democratic traditions of our<br />
country and the dignity of free,<br />
fair and peaceful elections, and to<br />
vote in every election fearlessly<br />
and without being influenced by<br />
consideration of religion, race,<br />
caste, community, language or<br />
any inducement.<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-71551390860144214702014-03-12T00:46:00.000+05:302014-03-12T00:47:37.559+05:30House Politics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ma (after heated discussion with Dad last night) : <i>Your father is an AAP supporter in the day and a BJP supporter in the night!</i></div>
Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-70528229306847926272014-02-15T02:24:00.002+05:302014-04-18T15:01:50.869+05:30Next to the enormous sea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finally the sun shone on us for two full days. After two full days. Foggy eyes rubbed open, cleaned winter discharge from its corners and caught the sun gaping through the freshly painted grill. Yellow rays fell softly through the magical bougainvillaea, gracefully warming the brown veranda. <br />
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Akira. The black beauty, with lustful nocturnal eyes, purred purposelessly around the the room and settled comfortably adjacent the sofa chair where the sun, shaped by the small window pane, fell squared on the floor. She yawned, stared at nothing peculiar and warmly gave in to slumber. Only the fan moved. Quietly. Perhaps by the wind passing by.<br />
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The silence of the slumberous afternoon lasted the whole day.<br />
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Unaware of who entered and exited through paranoid double locked doors, the flat allowed the lightest steps to thump a little louder than the ticking clock of the night. The dead smiled from old photographs. Silver cutlery spoke at dinner table. The slightest, shortest, softest word traveled effortlessly through closed wooden doors. Failed signals of deafening hearing aids.<br />
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In the building plotted in the tiny lane next to the enormous sea, gigantic drilling sounds started to wake dead bodies alive and ferociously disrupted quite conversations. The creatures of the house hid within half opened suitcases - peeping toms with closed ears - perhaps hoping to be taken away by the weekly travelers.<br />
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Outside. Bricks were banged and broken. The flat below was being made bigger with the hope of swallowing the flat above and one on the right and left. The fat armed sleeveless neighbor, it was cautioned, had once inquired about the last rites and the property rights of the newly dead. <br />
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Further Outside. The building reeked of the anger of the frustrated mad dog. He had been tied for years. No children played in the parking lot. Parks were undreamt. Only guards stood saluting all passerby. The need for a lift man continued to be a mystery.<br />
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A window, out of the many lifeless ones, smelt like love in the lemon grass planted in the tiny kitched garden of the old christian lady. She who cooked with all her heart humming to old film songs.<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-40573622502186151192014-01-13T19:39:00.001+05:302014-01-13T20:20:29.235+05:30writeahaiku.com<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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i.</div>
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we don't speak </div>
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these day</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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are as empty </div>
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as the fridge</div>
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when you're not home</div>
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ii.</div>
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when a boy I know</div>
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hurt himself I said</div>
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dude! could have cried instead</div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-41050678184425910892014-01-05T14:14:00.000+05:302014-01-05T14:20:11.074+05:30New Year Resolution<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ma: I think your new year resolution should be to think scientifically.<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-26117782235926894782013-10-05T13:57:00.000+05:302013-10-05T14:21:35.296+05:30Chotusing on Flickr<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Photographing and Writing must occupy two different planets in the web universe. Realization dawned too late. Photographs taken by these hands don't say much. Sometimes, they don't say anything at all. Sometimes they are saturated with colours of stupidity. Brain colours. But these hands are determined to take photographs that speak. They must. Baby steps and murmurs will graduate to whispers. Hope they start making drawings on walls. Hope they start screaming someday.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/104277115@N05/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/104277115@N05/</a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-18062147382043209392013-09-27T13:22:00.002+05:302013-09-27T13:22:50.594+05:30Mirror Mirror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUZEu6H2RmhAPSnsOpf3SDkobXtX2pWM7LKVf1ocm-lYhiiGiVWmLkt7BYZvjfsMAauR6iM0PIfZEM9GksqQublkJd8YOxT_uE4GCntvkJ52yLLAuQuJXa8CocH5fHqhNfHstEH-0bXi_/s1600/Mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUZEu6H2RmhAPSnsOpf3SDkobXtX2pWM7LKVf1ocm-lYhiiGiVWmLkt7BYZvjfsMAauR6iM0PIfZEM9GksqQublkJd8YOxT_uE4GCntvkJ52yLLAuQuJXa8CocH5fHqhNfHstEH-0bXi_/s640/Mirror.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-41714944985065500362013-09-05T22:46:00.001+05:302014-01-05T14:37:12.191+05:30Taar Bijili<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2M7F4J-igKo96KsQ0IrGKeYb9geesn4f4xwz4GTzEb9f0aFZjFFffxqNdowhuj3WRrHACYjxFGoxbiY_tlmKl1H9pHQ9r9mkht6HoY_tPLPtSt3pGDpgM7Vhs19yEXdtgTAljpkPfCqxs/s1600/Pigeons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2M7F4J-igKo96KsQ0IrGKeYb9geesn4f4xwz4GTzEb9f0aFZjFFffxqNdowhuj3WRrHACYjxFGoxbiY_tlmKl1H9pHQ9r9mkht6HoY_tPLPtSt3pGDpgM7Vhs19yEXdtgTAljpkPfCqxs/s640/Pigeons.jpg" width="356" /></a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-16963984548626778992013-09-02T01:38:00.005+05:302013-09-05T22:47:27.530+05:30Portrait<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOPPkZa63XqNVZ8aEm0YMy9vd17tMgmmXPv4MYzi_3v7ezpN3qUdzpldJyzalqY95od4LvSuOXcmbZzTSLjXhKcXT2HUw7R5Gpn_XavySURjO790PWkkaQ7YKa_g6vjUzHWTMg97ypyR3/s1600/Shilpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOPPkZa63XqNVZ8aEm0YMy9vd17tMgmmXPv4MYzi_3v7ezpN3qUdzpldJyzalqY95od4LvSuOXcmbZzTSLjXhKcXT2HUw7R5Gpn_XavySURjO790PWkkaQ7YKa_g6vjUzHWTMg97ypyR3/s640/Shilpi.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-85486825019950720832013-08-30T23:08:00.001+05:302013-08-30T23:10:28.512+05:30Whisperer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORt3KVYE_MGodtX0_I4kzCOFkeKAYaslzEZBWaBzHNUDY7x-3kcFS3wJwfAb8-e_isuyA7Dd_WEhLUXaiEtt2-z38Sy-cwP0HVSTAmjTrC_MKR9mlg_xe9IvayJ-ltDbUpzgQ-fOU4NmQ/s1600/Whisperer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORt3KVYE_MGodtX0_I4kzCOFkeKAYaslzEZBWaBzHNUDY7x-3kcFS3wJwfAb8-e_isuyA7Dd_WEhLUXaiEtt2-z38Sy-cwP0HVSTAmjTrC_MKR9mlg_xe9IvayJ-ltDbUpzgQ-fOU4NmQ/s640/Whisperer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-75202580585716290652013-08-28T23:27:00.000+05:302013-08-30T23:10:43.679+05:30Little Ghosts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifwKkR5-1SGesSXf_lBS1qE5Ys9v-yZArSA0C9CzA114sa3DDpcsUGnIPHrlIip0TnNMO3BbRXkbReCCaWs-QffEJkIwH8bFbHdJL6v-EygytMDXzeb2h3TEz2C4MOgbXUCOmeibiKe2E/s1600/Ghost+Children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiifwKkR5-1SGesSXf_lBS1qE5Ys9v-yZArSA0C9CzA114sa3DDpcsUGnIPHrlIip0TnNMO3BbRXkbReCCaWs-QffEJkIwH8bFbHdJL6v-EygytMDXzeb2h3TEz2C4MOgbXUCOmeibiKe2E/s640/Ghost+Children.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-85860504202587233112013-08-28T01:16:00.001+05:302013-08-28T11:58:51.278+05:30Office Office<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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'Official anything is bad but official films are the worst'<br />
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-- Donald Richie</div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-39610541368895603182013-08-27T19:05:00.000+05:302013-08-27T19:05:58.416+05:30Light Dada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqZEioLAHI7n8-Q-QyQcMGswn9UhWL1Nlrlb45bwenJJzTzZWRaNBGsRBNCxSndcY5NR1BaG0g6nIFKfgULXvTsK4shIyUEcj1KIXMe4KK8kKuj7TQun8XiJgUyHLmBEKtrUaCIDfjkyv/s1600/Light+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqZEioLAHI7n8-Q-QyQcMGswn9UhWL1Nlrlb45bwenJJzTzZWRaNBGsRBNCxSndcY5NR1BaG0g6nIFKfgULXvTsK4shIyUEcj1KIXMe4KK8kKuj7TQun8XiJgUyHLmBEKtrUaCIDfjkyv/s1600/Light+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCqZEioLAHI7n8-Q-QyQcMGswn9UhWL1Nlrlb45bwenJJzTzZWRaNBGsRBNCxSndcY5NR1BaG0g6nIFKfgULXvTsK4shIyUEcj1KIXMe4KK8kKuj7TQun8XiJgUyHLmBEKtrUaCIDfjkyv/s640/Light+man.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-38633648327655553362013-08-26T00:36:00.000+05:302013-08-28T12:08:08.376+05:30PIKA MIKA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMdIGY4ipnrK4x6wgGVlThom-5gFNq9YWSJy9OTr1fb2kyoODesL9wGBNfTQMYvR81nBpmsePd9kaWjqBFGw976AGXdz6d1KRxJf_Ih3sF4Po8lRkYtEh7zWhnVCV07e-9vP4A6HLZlk3/s1600/Dadu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMdIGY4ipnrK4x6wgGVlThom-5gFNq9YWSJy9OTr1fb2kyoODesL9wGBNfTQMYvR81nBpmsePd9kaWjqBFGw976AGXdz6d1KRxJf_Ih3sF4Po8lRkYtEh7zWhnVCV07e-9vP4A6HLZlk3/s640/Dadu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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[<a href="http://chotusing.blogspot.in/search/label/Dadi" target="_blank">Ram Ram</a>]<br />
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SHE: Surba! Woh kausna gaana aata tha 'pardesi pardesi saath chhod jaoge'?<br />
<br />
ME: Dadu kaunsa?<br />
<br />
SHE: Woh jo Urmil sunke roti thi?<br />
<br />
ME: Hmmmm...tum toh thehere pardesi, saath kya nibhaoge?<br />
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CUT TO<br />
<br />
ME sings: 'tum toh thehere pardesi, saath kya nibhaoge!<br />
subah peheli gaadi se, ghar ko laut jaoge'<br />
<br />
SHE sings: tum toh thehere pardesi...ghar chale jaoge!<br />
<br />
ME: Jaoge nahi dadu, ghar laut jaoge!<br />
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SHE: Haan haan. Kiska gaana hai? PIKA PIKA?<br />
<br />
ME: PIKA kaun hai?<br />
<br />
SHE: Arre woh jo jisne gaana gaya hai. pardesi chale jaoge!<br />
<br />
ME: PIKA? hahahahahahaha. Dadu PIKA nahi MIKA. Mika toh acha singer hai<br />
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SHE: MIKA? Nahi. PIKA!<br />
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ME: Nahi dadi MIKA. Chalo kuch nahi hota. PIKA MIKA same hai<br />
<br />
SHE: Acha! MIKA hoga<br />
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CUT TO<br />
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15 minutes later. ME siting in the room looking at the computer screen<br />
<br />
SHE enters<br />
<br />
SHE: Surba. uska naam MIKA nahi hai.<br />
<br />
ME: PIKA toh bilkul nahi hai dadu!<br />
<br />
SHE: Uska naam. Altaf Raja hai!<br />
<br />
And then suddenly Altaf Raja's face appeared before ME's face.<br />
And she immediately youtubed the song.<br />
<br />
ME: Hey Dadu! Thanks for bringing the legend back into my life!<br />
<br />
This one's for you dadu!<br />
<br />
SHE: Shakal toh dikha uski!<br />
<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-33294060704319001922013-08-25T00:26:00.000+05:302013-08-25T20:27:50.799+05:30Deadant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-76214946652672197562013-07-27T20:39:00.000+05:302013-08-01T01:48:25.380+05:30Titlee :)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have been on a feature film shoot for the last two months. Away from my small documentary world, I found myself lost in this magnanimously crazy space which demanded 16 hours (or more) of work on set with not just you but a hundred more people running helter skelter in all directions. Obviously, these running people are not big film stars. These are small stars who stand outside the frame of the camera. Never seen. Gun dada, Dress dada, Setting, Makeup, Action Master, Spot, Genny Guy, Focus Puller, Vanity Van Driver... the list goes on and on and on. You don't know their names. So you call them dada because most of them are men. Women are not called dadi or tai, they are called by their department name. People scream out these known-unknown names on set all the time. Settttinnngggg! Spottt! Makeupppp! GET OUT OF THE FRAME!!!!<br />
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They stand on the edges of the frame, behind the camera, next to the rostrum, holding the boom mike, lighting fires and bombs and simultaneously delivering water and chai and odomos. Everyone waits for the director to say CUT. They wait for the shot to get over so that they can enter the forbidden frame and fix that prop from the continuity of the last scene or dab the sweat off the actor's made up face or change the shot number on the clap board.<br />
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The set is a circus. And we're all jokers.<br />
<br />
The assistant directors are bang in the centre and are constantly blamed for creating this chaos. They are a team. One takes care of actors, one takes care of props, another of junior artists, one for script and one for something else - for there is always something that needs to be taken care of. They all speak on numbered walkie talkies and try to coordinate the chaos they are blamed for. The world of walkie talkies is a strange world. It has channels assigned to different departments who constantly fight with each other. Sometimes walkie talkies talk during a shot and get abused by the sound guy. Sometimes they play host to long antakshari sessions conducted by bored contestants.<br />
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You have all the reasons to hate this space. Bad work environment, delayed payments, neglected safety measures, zombied hours of work, abuse and insult and a complete invasion of any personal or social life you possibly thought of having. People sit inside your room and talk about work and scripts and films and dreams. Sometimes they sit inside your minds too. Leaving you with no reminiscence of the normality of life you once had. You make friends with colleagues. Like the friends you made at a theatre workshop in college once. Like friends with lots of laughter and gossip. Filmy friends. Friends who share stories about the previous films they worked on, friends who talk about struggles on the streets of Bombay, who tell you how warm or snobbish a particular film star is, who share a dream about the script they have written, a dialogue they will definitely use, the award they'd win and the people they will never forget when they become big. Filmy people, who miss Bombay on outdoor shoots, belong to a world so different! It is so different than the one in concrete air conditioned buildings!<br />
<br />
At this shoot that killed me and my health in the last two months, I found some of these friends who I will probably never forget. Maybe because they have all put together the experience of my first feature film. The Art department named me 'Titlee'. The name was given to me in the very first week of shoot and it still smells of all the love they showered on me till the last day. I love them all. We have shared whispers during a shot where weren't allowed to speak. We have exchanged glances and smirks when the director lost his cool in the burgeoning madness of setting up of the next shot. We have cribbed and whined and abused and cried on days we couldn't take it any longer (there were soo many days where it was just impossible to get out of bed and work for the 16 hours that lay ahead of us.) With tacit wishes for rain and thunder (that could potentially cancel the shoot) we have traveled through the most exquisite tea gardens planted against sun dipped red skies and traveled back with dead bodies which came alive to witness the magic of the blinking fireflies partying late in the night. We have stuck our heads out of the speeding cars and felt the wind in our faces. Again and Again. We have even danced to Buppy Lehri.<br />
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You have all the reasons to absolutely love this space.<br />
<br />
It is timeless, I say. Sleeplessness and timelessness walk hand in hand here and tired, sweaty, sun burnt bodies work really really hard. Day and Night. And then sometime, when you're lost in the hurly burly clamor and commotion, wondering what the hell you're doing here, almost teary for dearly missing something you've left behind, someone turns to you and says, 'Ey Titlee, zara hass ke dikha na' and you burst out laughing for you know that this is life and this is real and these are people with magic who can create these moments. And it is because of all this and a little more that you continue laughing - probably its going to start raining very soon.<br />
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:)<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-25179023196721521992013-07-15T12:08:00.002+05:302013-08-03T16:36:24.121+05:30Monsoon romance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two umbrellas<br />
held conversations below<br />
and a sea full of water above<br />
<br />
Two pairs of footsteps<br />
splashed dew drops<br />
on passing cars<br />
and drenched<br />
smiling faces<br />
with laughter.<br />
Tooth full faces<br />
with laughter<br />
that radiate<br />
a zillion colours<br />
into the universe<br />
<br />
Two lips moved<br />
and caught conversations<br />
under hanging arms<br />
as battling crowds<br />
rat raced<br />
to empty seats<br />
in crowded trains<br />
<br />
Two pairs of eyes<br />
smiled and spoke<br />
from the window afar<br />
raindrops stuck their noses<br />
against the glass<br />
and stared at faces<br />
comfortably fallen asleep<br />
on tired arms<br />
<br />
Two stations<br />
in between<br />
slapshed wind<br />
and water<br />
drawn from colourful balloon fights<br />
and soaked two almost lovers<br />
into the roller coaster<br />
of monsoon romance<br />
<br />
Monsoon romance<br />
under mobile umbrellas<br />
<br />
conversations below<br />
and a sea full of water above<br />
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Only fools fancy finding love over the summer!<br />
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-79611082986269485232013-07-04T16:35:00.001+05:302013-07-04T17:05:20.093+05:30Gurjeete<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It took me a while to realize the handsome standing outside my gate was Gurjeet, the driver designated to take me on shoot everyday. Looking at his fake driver's license I figured he was as old as my younger brother. People born in the 90s are so young! Every evening Gurjeet gives me a call when he's on his way from Nehru Place to my place. He is usually late. I am usually late too and somehow we have figured a way of being on time for each other even though it is late according to Call time. I look forward to meeting Gurjeet. He have a a little chat before we reach Kehar Palace to pick up the AD team. The background to our conversations has layers of regional punjabi music [lyrics of which I can't decipher], the full blast of the AC and a distant cacophony of cars, horns and people stuck for their lives in traffic [all blocked to our ears by rolled up windows]. Gurjeet and I usually gossip about the crew, bitch about work and calculate the hours of sleep we got the previous day. We talk about the panchayat elections in his village and local kabaddi and cricket tournaments. We examine transportation rates in the market and the money we can make out of it. Sometimes, we talk about the film world and film people because we are surrounded by them all the time! We have even identified our special route to the location in Gurgaon which has my favorite patch of a long roads and wide greens on either sides. I know he indulges me a little even though its a 2 km detour for him. Needless to say, I love my drives with Gurjeet. Somehow, we never fall out of conversation. Somehow, we always manage to laugh with each other. And somehow, I think, we have become friends :)<br />
So here it is - a photograph of Gurjeete who had almost refused to pose for my camera :)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zE16OFm7WvDmRfpt8MKaZNR9tE8Q6Y_EWDa8-EDOf7NpcQsytolaXe9TrGBEnFjnjenDRo4XLqGOFP1TbI2eJy-J8Oy083mqF3XZ9-WV44e_HSpLiCSRslmzviWRYsZBpFCB0dhbyVXr/s700/gurjeet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zE16OFm7WvDmRfpt8MKaZNR9tE8Q6Y_EWDa8-EDOf7NpcQsytolaXe9TrGBEnFjnjenDRo4XLqGOFP1TbI2eJy-J8Oy083mqF3XZ9-WV44e_HSpLiCSRslmzviWRYsZBpFCB0dhbyVXr/s640/gurjeet.jpg" width="547" /></a></div>
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Tilpuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969751850378873431noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119120979551836371.post-78003940278801406732013-06-20T12:43:00.000+05:302013-06-20T12:49:18.356+05:30Celeb Spotting :)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Guess who we met at the Bombay airport! Star stuck and excited we checked her out all through the airport into the plane. <a href="http://chotusing.blogspot.in/2012/01/something-really-pretty-happened-here.html" target="_blank">Takloo</a> daringly asked for an autograph the first time in her life! We also discussed how cool she is. Her old name, by the by, was Pankaj Sharma. But we say, BOBBY DARLING IS THE SHIT! </div>
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