My childhood dream...

Note: This was a write-up I'd submitted towards 'Big Belly' way back during my Career Launcher days.

My Childhood dream...

It’s true that every child dreams about becoming something special in life. It’s these dreams that liven up their fantasies all through their childhood. They cherish them all the time, sometimes boisterously sharing them with their peers and sometimes staying absolutely reticent about them. But somehow, as they grow up, these dreams, these ultimate destinations of their lives lose the significance and relevance and become a fragment of distant past invoking just a sense of absurdity. I was no exception but what is so different in my case is that the special dream of mine has managed to stick to my psyche to this day.

I’d, right since the age of seven, wanted to become a filmmaker. I’ve always found myself smitten by the radiant images on the celluloid. I was passionate about cinema even before I learnt to love algebra! I’d devour every word pertaining to the moviedom that appeared in the various periodicals that I had an access to. I learnt about the great filmmakers from India, both legendary and contemporary, and their stupendous creations. Their enigma always impressed me. I’d think of taking it up myself and then join the league of the likes of Bimal Roy, Raj Kapoor, Yash Chopra and Sanjay Leela Bhansali.

I always loved imagining; making things up. I’d visualize stories with my friends and classmates in the lead. I, in my imagination, would make them dance, sing, fight and even fall in love! The tendency somehow initiated me towards creating my own stories that would then serve as the plot for my movies. I started fantasizing about making films on my stories and casting the biggest names of Bollywood in it. As I stepped into my middle school, I began entertaining, and sometimes irritating, my friends and cousins with these plots replete with the title, cast and the supposedly enthralling twists and turns. My outlook towards cinema gradually matured and I found that my inclination was at the verge of turning into an obsession. I decided that I’d plunge into it and make movies that’d both entertain the audience and reach out to them with some message.

As years progressed and I became more conscious of the way things actually work in real world, my dream, my hopes, my choti si asha began losing both appeal and relevance. I’d, by now, read countless interviews of celebrities from the entertainment industry who recounted their initial struggles before they managed to make it big. They had slept on the footpaths of Mumbai, went empty stomach innumerable times and were rashly denied entry into the offices of the Bollywood biggies. I was convinced that success never came easy and wasn’t afraid of struggling for it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to digest the idea of being roughed up and humiliated in the Maximum City before getting that big break.

The entire prospect faded away and I almost struck it off my list of must-dos in life. But the creative instinct didn’t die. I kept weaving plots, kept filling hues into them and occasionally sharing them with the few sensitive people around me. My stories were getting distinctly mature and managed to somewhat impress those who heard them. It was sometime during my high school that a very different idea struck me bang on. I’d found it difficult to part with my passion towards creating stories even if taking it up professionally wasn’t exactly practical. I realized that I can still materialize them by making them into books. I was thrilled and started penning down my experiences with my friends at school. The attempt was appreciated by my English teacher which further fueled my will. I shifted to Delhi in class 11^th and that’s where I found the perfect plot for my debut novel. I worked out the details during the two years that I spent there and was ready with a full-fledged plot by the time I passed out. The problem was to imbibe the many different shades that the life and culture of Delhi stands for. I’ve, therefore, spent the past two years making regular visits to the city and getting in touch with many experienced people who’ve been helping me with the research. I’m hopeful about starting off with the first draft of my book really soon.

I’m happy that my creative urges found an outlet that’s likely to lead to something meaningful; that my passion didn’t go waste. I’ll be able to share my stories with the world without having to go through the obvious ordeals. I couldn’t get into filmmaking but it’s something that I can take up later on in life, when financial concerns won’t top my list of priorities. I still plan scripts for my movies and have amazing friends to share them with. I’m content that the dream I saw as a child didn’t get diffused during the onerous process of growing up but acquired a renewed sheen and is still a source of positivity for me.

Getting started!

There’s no way I can begin my journey through ‘Blogspot’ without dedicating my first ever post to the one and only Lohitha! Thank you, Ms Reddy for initiating me into the wondrous world of blogs by giving me the first taste of it through your salacious jottings! I owe this one to you!!

This blog is born out of an impulse, though it has been on the cards for a while. I’m glad having finally created it and the fact that I’m typing this maiden post in the dead of the night – 2:42 AM to be precise – is adding a certain forbidden thrill to it! I’m glad I finally have a medium that allows me to vitriolic, vain, whimsical and also verbose!

Amritsar

Life here has brought its own set of learning and yearning! I spent much of my day in the house, shut off from the rest of the world (that is, if you rule out Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn; the works!) and I could be living in Ahmedabad or Kolkata! But the random excursion to a dhaba selling exotic Kulche, the huge, ubiquitous signboards painted in Gurmukhi or the rustic aplomb with which my domestic help asks, “Kake, Ae ki khalara paya hai?” reminds me that I’m part of a most unlikely setting now! I’m in Amritsar – the epicenter of Punjabi-hood!

A visit to the Golden Temple about a month back brought home an endearing sense of fulfillment. The radiant Harmandir Sahib sat glowing, amid the dark, calm water of the sarovar, exuding piety, inspiring awe and supreme devotion – truly a sight to behold. We were glad we could visit it in the night when the temple is at its resplendent best!

The langar was another revelation: hundreds eating in one batch and several batches every day. Hundreds providing a helping hand, serving food, wiping the floor, cleaning the dishes, with a simple thought guiding them all: service is godliness. If you want a roti, you need to join your palms and it’ll be dropped on it. That’s when every trace of vanity evaporates. You beg to the Benevolent One and he obliges.

The man whom I saw sweeping the marble steps of the Harmandir Sahib with just his bare hands, collecting the dust in his palm, will stay with me for long. He’ll come to my mind whenever I meditate over the idea of unadulterated devotion. Every Sikh dreams of visiting the temple at least once in his lifetime. It’s the Mecca of Sikhism and it was a few days after the visit that I discovered why. The sanctum sanctorum houses the only copy of Guru Granth Sahib handwritten by the great Gurus – the sacred relic. This s what makes it the holiest of all Sikh shrines in the world!

The city and us

Ever since moving to the city, my mother has been distressed over the fact that her enviable collection of sarees is of no meaning here. Everybody wears salwar-kameez. If you go out draped in a saree, you’re declaring being an outsider and asking to be treated like one. “People think you’re deficient in some way. You can see it in their eyes,” says my mother, feeling utterly baffled that wearing a saree can actually make her feel bad in India! “99% women are in salwar suits,” she observes, as we drive through the city. She infers sadly that the only kind sporting a saree comprises laborer women and domestic helps imported from across the Indo-gangetic plains. “We keep the sarees for special occasions. Parties, functions, formal meetings,” my Punjabi landlady explained. “How many parties can one attend?” my mother wonders. “My collection is doomed to rot in the wardrobe!” The next time we visit the old market in the walled city, she makes it a point that she buys five new suit pieces.

Mummy hasn’t moved here for good yet. She’s a teacher and is waiting for this session to get over. She is putting up alone for now, in a cozy little apartment provided by her school. This is her chance to discover the delights of being completely on her own like a college student – something she couldn’t do when she was growing up. My father misses her food though. Very badly!

He hates the dhabe ka khana that he has to chomp down every day. Tandoori rotis are no fun if eaten twice a day and seven days a week. He is considering going on a diet where he eats lots of fruits and not much else. His new job requires him to be proficient in computers. He had never thought he’ll someday have to exchange so many e-mails on a daily basis. For years, my sister and I had taken turns to manage his email account. He’s now learning to use a computer and the internet, and getting better at it every day. He writes emails to his brothers and friends every night after dinner and, then, excitedly goes through the replies from the previous day. He’s found a new engagement after years. His new job is tiring yet fun and he loves every moment of it! It’s a rebirth of sorts for him, full of promises…

I am, in the meantime, learning the art of being a house-son! Having lived away from my family for more than six years, I find being at home somewhat disorienting. But I enjoy taking a break from my books to engage in the chores every now and then. I get up in the mornings to prepare some light breakfast for Papa – butter-toast, noodles or fruits. We wash clothes on Saturdays, and I make sure they’re ironed well in time. I shop for the grocery and plan the monthly budget too! Every night before we go to bed, I give him milk mixed with Protinex. And he sees it all, genuinely happy with the unexpected diligence with which I go about it. For me, it’s been one of those times when you just grow up, without actually having made an effort! It’s fun to go with the flow sometimes…

On a parting note: The erudite Abby once said, "Success is like the smell of potty! Bearable only when it's your own!..."