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That Day After Everyday - A Review

By : Prahaas Oldman
Has the fact ever transpired and materialized before a man’s vision that the frabrication of the identity of any woman in particular, via the imparting of a very commonly prevalent futile phrase ‘Ye meri waali hai’, is nothing else other than a most recurring form of sexual harassment in our daily life.
None of the men would have thought so, a minimal proportion of the women may have realized this, but believe it or not, it’s an abysmal truth for ‘nobody is anybody’s property’, and the faster this fact is digested, the better this country shall be.
In order to faithfully demonstrate the facts cited and to induce that very effect desired, film maker Anurag Kashyap, whose films impart morals in the best aphonic ways possible, comes up with a short film that deluges with morals that impart the much required invigoration in order to commove the masses.
Anurag Kashyap’s That Day After Everyday, written by Nitin Bhardwaj and starring Sandhya Mridul, Radhika Apte, Arannya Kaur and Geetanjli Thapa, chronicles the story of three women (Radhika, Arannya and Geetanjli) residing in an urban society who despite of having men to their aide, become the subject of unceasing eve-teasing, while the society around them watches helplessly.
This helplessness is the core of the entire film. Upon experiencing the sequence, one shall be angry, revolted and helpless, just like the protagonists of the film. This is the ace part about Anurag Kashyap’s latest work, it manages to accomplish what only a few cinematic achievements  manage to do, it provokes.
And just at the moment when the provoking essence substantially manages to get out the worst in the viewers, and angered by the happenings on screen, aptly catalyzed by the plight of our three protagonists,  when one is going to click the stop button, believing the film is no less than a convalescence, Kashyap swiftly steers the film around,  enabling the three feminine protagonist to realize that the characters of the men around are thwarted by cowardice, that they themselves should hone up their strength and stand up against all odds that this jungle of a society has to offer.
Enter Sandhya Mridul, a feminist, a mixed martial art instructor. No, if you are thinking that the film ahead goes all ape shit, then you are wrong. No Kill Bill follows. What follows is as original as one could have had portrayed it, and the director accomplished this task with utmost brilliance.
The viewers aren’t disappointed.
They are blissfully satisfied.
Anurag Kashyap’s direction is as always crude and spot on. The acting imparted by the cast is well nurtured, although Radhika Apte’s performance is influentially contagious, hence it’s applausible. The story line is good and if any flaw existed, the former artistic executions shall clean them up.
That Day After Everyday is a must watch for everyone. It is one of those cinematic pieces that should not go unnoticed, for they should be absorbed and their morals should be implemented.

The film is hosted by Large Short Film channel on You Tube.

An Excerpt From 'My Story' By Marilyn Monroe

By : Prahaas Oldman

I and my sister are like huge Marilyn Monroe fan and our obsession with the late starlet doesn't end only with her movies, rather we are quite persistent to lay our hands on any artifact that bears a resemblance to her, whether it's a photograph, poster or most importantly - a book.
Up till now, I was not acquainted with the fact that a Marilyn Monroe autobiography exists, there by I devoured over any biography of her that I could lay my hands on. Such biographies of her reeked with the essence of portraying a sweet woman as a sex symbol along with picturising her life as scandalous and controversial in nature.
Lies, all lies or say, highly tampered truth.
The autobiography of Marilyn Monroe titled 'My Story' is beautiful, elegant and innocent like the actress herself. I am still in the process of reading it, but I couldn't help sharing this beautiful excerpt from the mentioned book that sings the song of existence of diverse natures among people, that makes them love, that makes them ignore, that makes them lose their loved ones..that makes them feel what we call - guilt.

Instagram Délices

By : Prahaas Oldman

Instagram is pretty cool if you have ample time to waste in order to apply stupid filters on bad photographs, trying to extract a meaning out of them. Its just like make up that many wear in order to hide marks, acne and what not. It should better be called 'concealment therapy'.

Ofcourse I am being sarcastic in order to 'kid' (verb). It's a pretty cool alternate for people who don't want to sit in front of Photoshop conjuring layer after layer, only to merge them all in the end. Instagram is instant and delivers cool photographs owing to its method. I am not a fan, but I like it.
On the other hand, people who use Photoshop for enhancement procedures are mere phonies and should shove anything available at the very moment in their rears.

Kidding again, Photoshop's pretty cool, although it has an air of professionalism about it. Instagram, on the other hand, is a common man's application.

An Year Of Books

By : Prahaas Oldman
I did better rush this post. This is not me pouring my philosophy at your disposal, rather, it's me just sharing my most superficial thoughts in the most crude manner possible. This year I wrote less, read more. The smell of books constantly filled up my nostrils this year, and I did try to absorb every word, with all of my heart, believing that the process I was indulging myself in, was a part, a major part of my education.
I was an avid reader in my adolescence, but since I have hit adulthood, I feel like, as if I am more confused than a regular teenager. This confusion strikes me at the moment, in the form of depression and suicidal thoughts, but films, books, photographs and various other forms of art, act as an antidote to the undefined form of poison that exists within my mind.
"Mind i believe is the intersection of the perceptions of the brain and heart of an individual".
The winters early this year, portrayed me as a naive man, fueled by desires to accomplish tasks that I often dreamed of, yet their executions seemed futile at the moment. It was not because my lazy persona was in vogue, but it was because, though sometimes we just feel like putting our dreams on the track of accomplishment, but rather we are waiting for a perfect time, a perfect place, accompanied by perfect people, in order to execute the visions of our dreams.
That is when we temporarily give up on the practical phenomenons.
That is when I put my pen on hold.
That is when I decided to read. A lot.
When I was young, very, very young indeed, I had literally drowned myself in the works of Enid Blyton. The funny part was that, although I was a fan, plus an avid reader, I believed that 'Enid' was a man. When I realized, how wrong I was, I had already read a lot many of her works. They were splendid. Especially 'Six Cousins At Mistletoe Farm'. It was my favorite Blyton novel. My father was literally as well as practically a jerk. I believe his sole purpose was to torture us by creating a havoc in our life, finding ways trying to get the worst out of us and then blaming us. He was not an easy man to win from. There was once a phase and that very phase accounted for the whole of the last two years that we spent with him. In that phase, he devised a plan to torture us by strangling our stomach. The objectives of the plan were that either don't provide the family with food to eat, or give them the same food, three times a day, for throughout the year, until everyone gets literally fed up of the meals and give up on eating. Trust me, sometimes hunger is way better than eating something over and over again, like forever. But the harsh truth is that, in order to survive, you have too feed yourself, and so we did. So, when I was devouring on my lunch and dinner, like an unlucky animal, eating to survive, I used to keep open 'Six Cousins....' in front of me. In the novel, the characters used to have ham, cheese, fresh milk, sandwiches and what not, and that used to provide a flavor to the boring food that I was eating. Trust me, it was as magical as it can get.
I never got over Enid Blyton, but during the course of my literally journey, I encountered authors such as Sidney Sheldon, Robin Cook, Dan Brown etc. I, personally, am a big fan of Mr. Sheldon. He, no doubt, is one of the best writers whom I encountered. Robin Cook sucked, no offence, I really didn't like him, nor his medical thrillers, or say, suckers.
Dan Brown's first novel upon which I laid my hands was 'The Da Vinci Code'. I bought the copy of the novel in order to piss my sister, because according to my sister, the book was offensive and controversial. If she hated it that much, I just had to buy it. But it turned out something more than a 'pissing' attempt. The very moment I started reading the book, I was hooked. I began reading it at ten in the morning and finished it by midnight. I had never ever read a more intriguing book than it. Never. It was a masterpiece.
Then suddenly, I started noticing girls and gave up on reading. Chasing skirts seemed to be a very productive task then. The worst part is that I had this urge to marry and have a lot of babies with the girl on whom I had a crush. A lot many times I was turned down, yet I always managed to have my moments. I remember this one time when the girl on the other side agreed to my proposal. What a night it was. I slept peacefully and dreamt of a rainfall of babies. The next morning I was busy with my tasks (writing, watching films etc), I got free by the evening and that was the time when I laid my hands on my cell phone, for the very first time, during that day. I am not a very tech-savvy person. I really don't give a damn about technology, whether it arrives on my doorstep in the form of a costly cell phone or a turbo- charged car, I really don't give a fuck. I believe that stuff is for boys, we are men now, we should behave in a mature manner. Although, ofcourse we don't. So, when I checked my cell, I witnessed like twenty unread messages from that girls, all asking about my whereabouts. Within twenty four hours, I called off that relationship. Being single is the best feeling ever, I shall never ever give any person, any chance to hurt me in any manner what so ever.
After Sheldon and Dan Brown, I came across J.K Rowling. Up till then, I had never ever liked her creation, 'Harry Potter'. During that time phase, I was so depressed, that I borrowed a copy of the novel from my cousin and began to read. I was in my mid-teens, yet I loved it. I just loved it. It grasped me in ways I had never ever thought of and soon I had read all the book of the series and watched all the films too. I secretly read and watch 'Potter' to this day too.
Then arrived the reading hiatus that continued to the beginning of this year. I indulged myself in the act of writing, but had, had not read anything for quite some time. Winters were at their peak, and life was not so good. To cheer me up, my friend advised me to buy a particular book. He hoped that, that very book, shall erode my negativity to quite an extent, sparking up quite some positvity. In a way, he was right.
The Secret by Rhonda Byrne is not a novel. It not a book either. I did prefer to term it as encouragement. It boasts of a lot of issues that can be dealt in the right manner with a positive approach. I read it, in a way savored it, even brought the advice of the author in practice. Trust me, it helps. I loved the book, and I prefer to read it from time to time, trying to get myself in a stable form, recommending it to everyone around, who give me looks, as if, I had advised them to consult a psychiatrist.
The next book that I got myself was 'Tales From Shakespeare' by Charles & Mary Lamb. I had read that book in my early childhood, enveloped by darkness. The sole reason that I was able to read it was that it is in simple language, not in drama form, but rather in the form of short stories. I bought it because I wanted to adapt some play of Shakespeare in the form of a screenplay for a short and for that I just required the plot. I never finished the task I entitled myself with, but this cheap book is surely a catch.
Sidney Sheldon's autobiography 'The Other Side Of Me' is definitely a must read. It's action packed as his novels, full of thrills and chills, and the best part is that it's a real life story. It's the story of his life. The part that struck me with great positive attitude was that how hard working was a man named Sidney Sheldon. Hard working enough that he ended up winning the Academy Award For The Best Original Screenplay. It's one of the favorite books of mine, inspiring and alluring at the same time.
During my summer break, I read, 'Guru Dutt' by Nasreen Munnni Kabir. It was a biography. The life of Guru Dutt, no doubt, was mesmerizing, but his life, witnessed from other person's words, gives one the impression of coming across information on Wikipedia. Although I favor the book, yet I despise biographies. They are superficial and soulless.
Charles & Mary Lamb's version of Shakespeare's place was just not enough for me. I wanted to make the real deal with the works of the great playwright. Thus, I ended up laying my hands upon the 'Complete Dramatic Works Of Shakespeare'. Tough baby, this fat book, the language is alien, yet if you have the zeal, you can get through it. When I am in the mood, I read a play, feel happy, when I am not, I feed the book the darkness of my store room.
Dan Brown's Inferno is a piece of shit. Yes, you read correct. I was a huge fan of 'The Da Vinci Code', but 'Inferno', though interesting, though an intriguing chase, is written on the blueprint of 'The Da Vinci Code'. It's just like reading the latter, with characters of different name becoming the part of action in a different setting. I am not saying that it's not readable, it very much is, but the acute resemblance of it to the very first book in the 'Robert Langdon' series, just pisses you off. Especially if you considered yourself to be a fan.
'The Holy Innocents' by Gilbert Adair is a masterpiece in its own terms. Its provocative and erotic, yet powerful and sensual. The chemistry of the character is taboo and carefully woven, plus the description of Paris is elaborate enough to fall in love with the city and the culture. Once again. The novel is not meant for anyone, but with a open creative artistic mind, one might tend to savor it and the story of the lives of the people it holds.
These were the books that I have already read. I am halfway through reading 'A Streetcar Named Desire' and Marlon Brando's autobiography 'Songs My Mother Taught Me'. I love the former for I have watched the film - A Masterpiece. As of the latter, I shall say that we know very less of Brando as a person and his autobiography just touches the heart. Or say, as of yet, it touches the heart.
That is it for now. Read, write, love. In any order what so ever.


By : Prahaas Oldman
One day my friend came to my place and abruptly announced that we should make a movie, and we should make a movie in the fastest manner possible, in order to test our speeds and creativity while working in an environment that is burdened with the pressure of achieving the maximum out of minimum.
He told me of a concept, a very simple concept, that I ended by naming up 'Smoron'.

Screen captures from the trial footage of 'Smoron'

The concept of Smoron, revolved around a cigarette addict, who doesn't think beyond lighting a cigarette. So, one day this guy wakes up, mistakes his pen for a cigarette, realizes, grabs his cigarette and lighter from the table, again to realize that his lighter is not lighting up. So this moron goes into the kitchen, and instead of lighting his cigarette from the matchstick available, he first lights the lighter from the matchstick, then with the lighter, he proceeds ahead to light the cigarette. He then comes back, lies down, finishes his cigarette and then pulls up his white bed sheet, ending up drowning in slumber once again.

Now there are two aspects to Smoron, a minor aspect and then a major aspect. The minor aspect is that this moron proves his stupidity in the lighter-matchstick-cigarette sequence. On the other hand, the major aspect is that, his habit of chain smoking is actually leading him to a phase where he would end up with a white cloth wrapped around him. Hence 'Smoron'.

Editing 'Smoron'

We finished shooting the clips of Smoron in approximately twenty minutes. The left over time was dedicated to the process of editing the footage, which went just fine. Smoron is a silent footage, no voice overs, no dialogues, just a instrumental score playing in the background. In the very end, I converted Smoron in my favorite black and white tones, successfully obtaining a dreamy tone out of it.

And I was quite happy, for I again learnt a lesson.

Lesson learnt: One always improves a bit with every step taken.


The Message : The First Trial Footage Shot

By : Prahaas Oldman
Everything went wrong with the first trial footage that I shot in the month of November last year. The notion of shooting the trial footage was not to make a short film but rather to provide oneself with the basic skills required in film production. This was the sole reason why I didn't waste my scripts on it, and decided to imagine and shoot the dilemma induced end of a person who is too depressed of his life and is therefore bent upon committing the act of suicide.

Screen captures from the trial footage of 'The Message'

I and my friend, who was acting in the footage, met up one morning and started shooting with a Sony Semi-DSLR, creating the story line up as we shot scene after scene, trying to take minimum number of re-takes so that we don't consume much time, thereby finishing the shoot the very same day. And we ended up doing the same too, yet we made a mistake when we stood by the decision of recording my friend's voice for the narrative, some other day.

But as fate serves us - bloody, my friend had to leave the city to go attend his college and I was left with the footage that had yet not been post-processed.

After waiting for quite some time, I couldn't wait for any longer, and decided to provide the voice over myself. After recording the voice over, I put the footage through the process of editing, that, somehow, went quite well. I inserted by voice in the footage and 'ignored a fact'. Proceeding ahead, I converted the final footage in black and white, softening it down, but not up to the desired result.

Yet I finished it.

I published it on You Tube. Got 'booed'.

Most probably because, earlier I 'ignored a fact'.

And that ignored fact was that my voice is so feminine, that in a footage featuring a male protagonist, I had inserted a self-narrative, that seemed of like a woman.

Got a laugh out of the people who saw it.

Lesson learnt: Don't Hurry.


Old Cut : Deux

By : Prahaas Oldman

Was going to place this in the bin, as I indulged myself in the activity of sweeping clean my virtual buddy, but then decided to share it. When I photographed it, I named it 'Blend', trying to relate it to the color transitions appearing in the frame. Shot it on an evening in August, going philosophical with a buddy of mine. Neither did the evening last long, nor did our philosophy.


By : Prahaas Oldman

At the moment, I carry off myself as a madman, with long hairs that fall over my face and shabby clothes, trying to rhyme up with the character of the artsy person in me. Frankly, to tell the truth, I am quite sick and tired of carrying off myself like this, I mean, this was one character that I never wanted to portray. A few years back, I was the guy who was 'The Guy', I mean, I was bad, mad and what not. In other words, I was cool, today I am everything that is opposite to the mentioned word. I had friends, lot many of them, and I used to hang out, spend my parent's hard earned money, even abused quite a lot and then, at the very moment that I thought life couldn't get any better, life somehow really happened, leaving me surprised, battered and shattered. Although I look at what I think and pen now, comparing to what I thought and penned then, I find that nothing has changed, apart from the fact that, then the writer was the person whom no one
would recognize as a writer, today that very person couldn't be recognized as anybody else other than the writer. 
So, if you'll find me in my mass communication class, I am the guy who doesn't give a fuck, I sit with my legs up on my chair, my views up on my nose, and a bit of residual attitude from the old days. I wear dull shades when it comes to clothes, don't take care of my hairs and during the classes and in between them, you may find me penning down poetry. Poetry of despair, as I term it. But I really wish to be the old me and live my old care free life, but I somehow can't. Feels like I have been chained by the tides of time.
I don't know who clicked this photograph, but I remember this moment so clearly that I tend to call it a perfect capture. This shot displays every bit of my persona of aspiring director, disappointed at the fact that my directions were not being followed in the prescribed manner, giving the scene taking place in front of my eyes, a very disappointing look. I so wanted her to be the best that day.


By : Prahaas Oldman
And of the world that lay collapsed beside me,
Like a whore of the universe, with a painful tale to narrate,
Fallen prey to a bait, yet hopeful that it’s never too late,
To love the shy shadow of the future, come to me,
Like my yet to be born offspring, for I can feel thee,
I can feel you blossoming, within the womb of time,
Impregnated by lust, realized with the cosmos,
Where stars collide and rape the innocent harmony,
Galaxies and the orgies they throw, within the womb,
My child grows, the fetus of beautiful sins, my baby, my baby;
As you struggle through these barricades, the asteroids grow angry,
Collision within collision, a fucked up society, a family of lies,
Aborted happiness slithers upon it’s last breath,
Poems of abuses, songs of screams, prose of cries,
Yet in the womb, my baby grows, yielding it’s wings,
Pushing through the barricades of femininity, I ask,
I strip naked of all doubts and ask, how would you stop thee?
Something that’s not meant to be caged, rather wants to be free,

The last cursed apple on the tree, I tasted thee, I tasted thee.

Tears From The Corridor

By : Prahaas Oldman
Why did you break,
Why did you lay,
Shattered on the sands of time,
Innocent were thee, what was thou crime?
Heinous was it as such,
Why cruelty was imparted upon thee,
Why you stand disheveled, why you stand,
like a ghastly shadow, like an autumn tree,
liveliness, fun, forlic? Thou shalt not witness,
those horrid conflict of emotions, shatter thee,
O’ soul, o ‘ you innocent child, why did you break,
Why did the cradle of life, become your grave,
Why don’t you save yourself, why don’t you save,
What times inflict, let ‘em, bruises shall heal,
No, no, thou shalt not dream, father shall not kneel,
He won’t, he was a lesson of time, hope you learned,
In life he came for a reason, a moral imparted, a moral learnt,
Don’t remember him, thou soul shall burn,
Such burns won’t heal, happiness shall they steal,
And when shall they , hideous memories shall they rain,
And that is why you fear rain, don’t you?
And when droplets fall on your face,
In tears shall they disseminate,
Don’t search, for thou shalt never find,
Thou shalt never find, what you searched for,
Happiness was it? Isn’t it?
God’s puppet were you, you feared Thee,
The more you feared, the more did God feared Thee,
He was the shepherd, you were the sheep,
Now tell, who misguided you?
Did warm hands fool you into it,
Or was it that genuine smile,
Smile that absconded the truth and rhymed,
If not they were, but a thousand lies,
Lies that diverted your life, lies that took no sides,
Cruelly unbiased to the core,
Harsh tides beat my soul to the shore,
A shore where no one resides,
Life’s a calendar of empty days, vacant nights,
Curtains of darkness fall over the windows of light,
Give me the permission mother, for if I might,
I did love to give up this fight,
Disappear out of life’s sight,
How will anyone be cruel to me?
Now shatter my battered soul,
a soul that left no tale untold,
an unloved soul that fell from the skies,
into a world of never ending lies,
lies that thrived in every lane,
lay scribbled on every window pane,
lies that made soul live in shame,
lies that went away, yet back they came,
to haunt men, driving them insane,
and ‘lie’, now my soul shall escape thee,
no matter how hard it may be,
but hardships are something,
the valor of my heart wont see,
for my soul shall be set free,
as if it is a bird,  a dream,
so swift, so fast, that it can tear the world apart,
how would you chase thee, how would you chase thee,
and into a different world shall it fly,
while souls on this planet shall weep,
but proud shall it be for its leap,
a leap of faith, a leap that took everyone’s breath away,
abscond did it, the life that was never meant to be for it,
chained did it sit, in a room, where darkness was lit,
and it darkness did it spread its ings,
taking its last breath,
breath of freedom,  the last breath of the soul,
the soul that left no tale untold,
a soul that escaped, a soul so bold,
of worlds and their folds,
that soul flew into escape,
of it, tales were told, and poems were written,
and what they wrote, believe me, was the partial truth,
realize the pain of a soul singular,
realize the emotions of it,
realize the story of it,


The Anatomy Of An Affair

By : Prahaas Oldman
Divert your path from the land of shadows, proceed towards where sunshine resides, where a plant grows, water it from the valley of tears nearby, don't thrive on the fruit it bears, give them to the ones who need it the most, let it grow, just let it grow. Sit beside it, staring into infinity, from where the light arrives, the origin is a beauty, she's young, her skin glows, her hairs reflect the rays that bathe you, adore it, don't reach for it, for one day the plant shall bloom into a tree and the sunshine shall disappear, the origin shall cease to exist, the beauty shall steer away, far beyond your reach and while in the darkness you shall mourn, your voice shall sing, what you grew up with utmost care shall now become your grave, but the beauty won't show up, console yourself, may be she has lost her way.

22nd July, 2013.

By : Prahaas Oldman
You shall fall, you shall rise, but the strength to accomplish the task - that very strength- who shall provide? The existence of some kind of force, always does, answering the question, strangling the life out of one's sarcastic words. For there in the attic, always came two doves, they sat there for moments, like a married couple, examining the prospects of making it their home. Far away sat someone, such as you, at a distance quite safe, observing them, for you were always an observer - you spoke less, absorbed more, as if the events taking place in the environment around you, were a source of energy. You were intrigued, by the behavior of these birds - this couple, in every sense, seemed to be deeply in love, in a very humane manner. Can they really possess those feelings that have now run into extinction, you would wonder. Days went by, neither did the doves put a break on their regular visit to the attic, nor did you give up your worldly weird habit of observing them. If they didn't stop, if you didn't stop, why shall time? So being a competitive racer, time rushed past you, dissolving you amidst the solution of montages - the father dove brought twigs, helped the mother dove to assemble them in the right manner, completing the house of theirs - that we call a nest in our irritatingly superior tone, and then converting it into a home by blessing it with the most beautiful form of life - a third of their kind. And suddenly, everything snaps back to normal again and you realize that there are new residents in the attic. If the events before - intrigued you, then the events that followed, tended to mesmerize you, in a way - inspire you. When the mother dove took care of the yet to be born, the father dove brought food, many times a day, displaying every aspect of that lost emotion called love, every aspect - from care to responsibility. He even guarded the nest, regularly, every morning while the mother dove was outside. And you observed and you absorbed. You knew that there was something to learn and apply that acquired knowledge to your life. You knew that when you would love, how would you love. And while such thoughts swarmed within your mind, you did fail to realize that, that particular day, the father dove didn't come back to the attic with any kind of food. Morning passed, afternoon flew away, evening fell above you and soon darkness draped the sky. But he just didn't return. The next day, the mother dove took the charge of all the responsibilities and accomplished all the chores with what seemed like perfection. But did she cry all day long? You wondered. And one day, the egg hatched and the third member arrived. Your initial response of happiness was thwarted by the truth that provoked you to realize the loss of the second one. May be it reminds her of his father- you try to give yourself a false sense of consolation. It does work on many levels. But not on those levels of cruelty displayed by fate, when one day, in the absence of the mother, the baby dove falls from quite a height, and though you place it back in the nest, by keeping all the necessary precautions in your mind, you have this uneasy feeling down your gut that something isn't right, gloom lingers all around you and at the end of the day, it gets blended with a dawning realization, that what ever the reason might be, the mother dove wasn't returning either. For many days to come, you nurse the child and it grows up to be a havoc, having these constant urges to running out and fly. But you notice, that the fall had made him cripple, an impact that will linger by its side, through out it's life. Yet, it showed every enthusiasm to fly. So you decide to take your chances, and out in the open, place it. An failed attempt or two, after such embarrassing falls, it takes off. You expect it to come crashing down, all prepared to catch, but the vision of it, disappears like a minuscule dot, in the sky above. Leaving an empty nest behind, which is now no longer a home, perhaps just a mere house, the cripple had flown to discover new worlds beyond. As of yet, it's life has all been about challenging fate. It, itself was a perfect definition of love. It was a personification of fairy tale love, it's crippled state added to the reality that existed in the emotion. Love too is crippled. You fall to the ground, only to rise and you rise, if you have the guidance of the force of determination.

Towards The End

By : Prahaas Oldman

Though it's generally not the kind of space, I love strolling into because my consciousness regains its most dominating form in order to make me believe into the plethora of the materialistic value we tend to abide by, ending up only to realize that we have had lived all our life measuring it from corner to corner, equalizing all the co-ordinates that selfishly exists on every axis of the dimension of our lives, always trying to perfect the diagram but being subjected to constant failure till the very end. Yet sometimes, my sub conscious mind awakens from what seems like a never ending slumber and pushes me through the barricades of naiveness into the orgy of thoughts and emotions that greet me as a stranger, and telling me with a smirk on their faces that I am nothing but a species that is trying to exist beyond its capacities, losing all my good qualities, feelings and emotions for they are all like dominoes inter related to one another, leading to their universal destruction if even one of them is lost; thereby turning me into a hungry, atrocious weapon that when gets empty of the flares repents over its most valuable but now lost jewel - innocence. And then it all ends.
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The Barrier

By : Prahaas Oldman

Seldom do I open the window beside my bed. From my different perspective it's like a barrier or let's say more like a shield that I prefer to have between myself and the world outside. Late at night, my perspective changes. The shield becomes the source to glance in the darkness. Beneath the red sky stand tall buildings sheltering..who knows what. All that can be seen is the empty road, damp and glistening in the street lights. All that can be heard are the songs that the insects sing, chirping of a troubled love bird who couldn't sleep. It's name itself is a curse. Far away, transportation trucks blow their horns, all different sorts of them. Far far away the sound of a train, either arriving, either departuring, either in the midst of its journey..who knows. Probably the only thing that runs on its tracks. We, on the other hand..derail from our destined tracks and get lost. No humans around at this time, not even a single one. But the cold hearted species could be felt in the form of the cold breeze that silkly collides with my face. Its too cold. May be that's what they leave behind when they go to sleep, dreaming, or seeing the forthcoming or observing a parallel universe. Who knows?
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The Balance

By : Prahaas Oldman

Today I spent a lot of time outside performing what seemed like 'infinite number of chores'. Yet, during all this, a certain amount of memory of mine was allotted to perform the function of thinking. So the following thought was processed by it on the basis of seeing and believing : Today I noticed something about bargaining. The middle class common man bargains- on a healthy basis but it's like 
a hereditary trait of the common man now a days. The rich as in really rich man too bargains, and he bargains & bargains! Conclusion- He bargains like hell on a very unhealthy basis.The funny part- the 'put the gun on my head & shoot me dead' thing is that they all bargain with the poor man- the really poor man succumbs to it-he remains poor- the rich remains rich-in a way-right or wrong-the equation remains balanced.

Old Cut

By : Prahaas Oldman

Sometimes I feel, that I have gone in too deep in this ocean of lust- a lust for something that I truly desire. My deep dive results in the pressure of life closing upon me and along with it, closes upon me- the truth. It is at that moment I realize, that what I am searching for-the object of my desire, is not something that I have lost..it's something that I have neglected to look at, its something that I have ignored. And at this moment, as I am trapped in the depth of this ocean, the object rests on the sands of time, in the open breeze, ignored. The pressure of life closes upon me, the count down begins, and all that I have to do now is - resurface.
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Poems : Take One

By : Prahaas Oldman


I think it will feel good,
if somebody wipes your tears,
and promises you,
that from now onwards,
all that will rain,
will be rain.


If you ever bleed,
as I have bled,
and you look around yourself,
not even a droplet of tear shed,
you come to realize,
floods of foes have drowned your friends,
or as you are being crucified,
those dogs have fled.
So just hold on tight,
just pick up a fight,
all that will be defeated is death,
when you shall arise,
to revenge, you must abide,
a revenge that makes,
even traitors bleed in their breath.


As those who called themselves holy,
left that forbidden land,
left it in complete darkness,
as in the hour glass,
down falls the sand.
As those who called themselves holy.
left that land,
leaving the living in melancholy,
down falls the sand.


Unworthy enough to compare it to sand,
haunted by guilt and terrified by her past,
she tries to save it, holding it, in her hand;
her fist clench tightly, shielding the precious within,
as her own conscience is crucified by lies and lust,
a soul so pure is breaking down, dissolving in her sins,
she struggles at the moment, to do what she must,
yet life's has cheated on her, it's in love with gravity,
thou hurt life, life will hurt thee,
that's life's insanity;
yet she tries to save it, holding it, in her hand,
but life escapes, as it always does, from within her grasp.

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Passages From The Night

By : Prahaas Oldman

It's always the same, a silent cold night, torn apart at regular intervals by the wailing sirens of the cop cars. For a moment there, you feel really unsafe, then again and as usual, the silence and the calmness of the night blends with you. You stare ahead, darkness stares back and you lower your gaze, to better look within you, cos you feel that the gaze of the darkness is quite cruel. Then the clock ticks backward, rewinding time, providing you with your own footage making you realize what a jerk you had been. If it had been daytime, you would had definitely kicked your conscience aside, but in the dark, we have the tendency to see more clearly within us. The stone heart turns to jelly, your wrongs pile up high against your rights and surprisingly, you willingly accept them, you feel guilty, you get.... interrupted by the screeching sirens of the cop cars. You realize that you too are being chased, you too are guilty, though not as guilty as them. You close your eyes, you are the convict and you are the jury. You plead guilty. Your eyes open in the morning. The sun light that pours through the window, has a lot more to offer.. a lot more,than you think.

The night rules again. My ears hope to hear the wailing sirens of the cop cars. Again. They face disappointment. No cop cars today, no sirens today, no sense of security today. The absence of the sirens tonight could only mean two things in this country, that either the convicts have escape or either the cops have lost them. There's no third take on it. But the night's silence never remains at peace. Either the dogs howl, either the sirens wail or either some bastard comes drunk in the area. He creates a scene on the road in midst of the night. The guards pull him and throw him out of the locality. They did their job well. But what were they doing when the guy entered the locality? well....
Like Taxi Driver's Robert De Niro pointed out that all the scum comes out on the road at night. I believe him. He also added that he wished that someday a rain will come and wipe this scum of the earth's face. I second him. Then I chuckle.
With the rate at which Global Warming is going up, you cant be too sure of the arrival of natural rain, how the hell will the scum wiping rain arrive?
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Two Chapters Of Harsh Truth : Unusual Morons

By : Prahaas Oldman

chapter 1

They say that the earth is round.
The truth is, that the planet mentioned is oval in shape.
The former line, describes an assumption - A very 'closer to the truth' assumption, but not really the truth. Predicted, with a limited means, and a very little experiments, this assumption rests on the shoulders of one's visualization. Some handicapped fool still makes such assumption, wannabe scientists love reading his works. Probably, reading all that stuff, provides hope to their hopeless minds. I really did threw an insult over there. I don't have any personal enmity with such people, it's just that, my views are more leaned towards facts- proven facts - 'the real truth'. It's at this point, we bring the latter into the view. The oval shape, the unbiased, technically proven truth. All abide by it because it's what our eyes see, it's not just another mere visualization of our mind.
A person will really be an Unusual Moron not to believe the facts streaming in his/her views.

chapter 2

The sharp as a butcher's knife truth is that you don't resemble a human being. You look like a cross - a hybrid of a human and a any ugly animal. Pick any, the choice is yours, Santa got a bit late in granting your wish. Coming back to the point, let me just summarize my statement- You are quite ugly. It's not your fault. It's the fault of some biological component. To make my point, a bit more clear, let us give you a sex. Congratulations! You are a female. Now, acting according to the truth, you are the most worst looking female in town. Guys like Freddy Kruger and Lord Voldemort vanish into thin air at even a short glimpse of yours. It's quite funny. Just imagine them doing so. You, on the other hand, have taken the saying, 'All God's creature are beautiful', a bit too heavily. You are a creature, no doubt in that, but I don't see any beauty lurking miles around you. If it were possible, I did stick your photograph beside the word ugly in the dictionary. If it was possible, I would also super impose this action on others to follow. Rest is their choice, because I won't force them to obey me, I am not a dictator. But your ugliness definitely is! After all of this splendid praise, you do have an arrogant air of your own. You try to be someone you are not. You don't realize what you are doing, you always think that it's perfectly normal. But of course, it isn't. Standing in front of the mirror, you think that what don't I have, that others have? Well, in a way, yes, you do have two eyes, a nose and lips. But are they positioned correctly? If I were you, I did definitely double check that. 'With great power comes great responsibility' ..and I must conclude that, with great ugliness, comes a great tendency to lie. Why lie? Just to hide the sharp truth. You start lying in the neighborhood, about how a bunch of handsome guys proposed you and you bluntly rejected their proposals. I mean seriously? Even if a human type normal guy comes to ask you out, you turn him down, just to point out that you can really do better than that. Sadly, you can't do better than a male pig. You know that. People around you know that. They laugh at you behind your back, calling you names. But we can't blame them, can we? They are not laughing at you about how you look.. Doctors and nurses fulfilled that formality. They are laughing at you because you are a liar, a freak, you are trying hard to be someone you are not! You are really trying hard to be an Unusual Moron. Don't try, you are one already.

chapter 3

Don't drink the coffee when it's too hot to drink. You will get your tongue burnt. It's like a stinging pain and your entire coffee won't be as fun as it was supposed to be. Now it's time to allot you a sex. Congratulations! You are a male.
You are a good looking guy, every girl's eye candy. You impress them in a jiffy, and they get impressed in a jiffy, because may be you are a good looking male. Life's a party. Your brain's a hell. Satan is a party crasher. Though, you are living in the present, your mindset is that of an oldman residing in the year 1876. Don't question my accuracy, question that fucking mindset!  Behind your charming personality, resides a dominating creature. Calling you a human being will be like an abuse to the race. What are you? You are a circus master, you want your partner to obey you like a well trained animal. That's a contradiction. Because who would obey a wild animal like you? You have those typical orthodoxy believes, believes of which, if girls come to know, you did be beaten blue and black. And one day, you will be. Until then, you hide behind a very decently painted mask. You have a habit of chasing skirts, but on the inside you don't like her wearing that. Who are you to decide that? Ofcourse, I forgot, you are the bastard we are discussing here. When it comes to making a girlfriend, you choose the hottest chick around. She loves you, you love her back. A little time flows smoothly by. Then, you start showing your real colors. You start criticizing her for everything she does. She tries to endure the criticism, because girls are strong, but why would she endure your crap any further. She calls off the relationship. You go around, kicked on your ass, telling everyone that she was characterless and that she had a series of boyfriends. My dear, bastard, i tend to ask you this that who in this damn world gave you the fucking right to determine anyone's character. If you have a series of girlfriends, then you are declared a casanova and in case of a girl, she is characterless. Let me tell you something, the girl's fine, her character's fine and she is an amazing human being, but you are no casanova! Hell no! You are hereby declared to be an Unusual Moron.
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By : Prahaas Oldman

"The most excellent cinema is the one that becomes a memory"

We live our life watching the world turn from our perspective. We wake up everyday, get ready, leave for work, encounter various situations and numerous people, some of them turning out to be co-operative while the others can be termed as problems. But running away from them is not a solution for our life, in a way is a story that needs to be directed in such a way that we overcome all our problems with healthy solutions making our life look as worthy as a film. We are the directors of our own life, aren’t we?

On the other hand, if we do get a little bit restless and want to sneak in the life of others like a very fussy person, someone ,somewhere has had invented a beauty coined ‘cinema’. It provides us with the opportunity to take a peek in the story of life of various characters that are invented and directed by a person in a manner that it becomes often hard to discriminate between the flesh of reality and the thirty five mm reel of fiction. The person who accomplishes this task successfully is also termed as a ‘Director’ in the field of cinema, now whether the cinema is Italian, French, Indian or Catonese, this very person with the very same name tends to direct in order to deliver world class cinema to the audience.

Talking about world class cinema, there is a scene in the Rob Marshall directed musical ‘Nine’, where the leading man, Daniel Day Lewis who portrays the character of Guido Contini , an Italian film director is admonished by his favorite aging costume designer Lilly portrayed by Judi Dench, when she tells Guido that everybody knows that directing is a very over rated job and all that directors have to do is to say – Yes or No. And voila! The job of being a film director is accomplished.

Though this sentence by Judi Dench’s character is used in the film to provide a funny feel in her character, but it is partially true and partially false. The job of a film director is in a manner, to say Yes and No, but is obviously much more than that and on the other hand this obvious facts sleekly contradicts the fact that ‘Directing is an over rated job’. A director’s job is to direct i.e the puppeteer of the puppet show, who does says a lots of ‘Yes’ and a lots of ‘No’ but at the right place and at the right time. This combination leads to successful direction otherwise one’s fate is as same as that of Ed Wood.

Before learning about success, we must learn about failures. We must definitely become acquainted with the information about bad direction of cinema. Ofcourse, if there are good directors then there also exists a class of quite bad directors. The very simple definition of bad directors is that, they are the very individuals who said ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ at quite a few wrong times at quite a few wrong places. Thus there bad decisions led to their bad directorial ventures and they were classified as failures when it came to direction. Ed Wood was one such director, who never took care of his direction seriously and some of his shots did include the glimpses of a boom microphone lurking in the frame! Nothing more to be said in this context!

It all begins with an idea. An idea that forms in the head of a particular individual. Now this particular individual could and could not be a director. This idea, if sticks for long, proceeds forward to develop itself in a story and is penned down. The story is penned down by a story writer. It is to be noted that a director can be a story writer. Now the story writer takes the story to a long string of producers and ultimately some producer likes and shows his/her interests in the story. In this manner, after a few procedures, the story is brought. Now, the producer hires a screenplay writer in order to turn the story in a screenplay of a feature film. Another point to be noted is that, the director can also be the screenplay writer for there are many directors who pen down their own story and screenplays and direct a film based on them. The most notable examples are that of Quentin Tarantino, Lars Von Trier, Ingmar Bergman etc – the directors who write and direct. On the other hand, there are directors like Martin Scorsese, David Fincher, Steven Spielberg etc who direct films that are based on stories and screenplays penned down by independent story and screenplay writers.

Now, when the screenplay is completed after a lot many rewrites that either take it towards perfection or degrade it towards failure, the producer hires the director of the screenplay friendly genre so that he/she could do justice to the screenplay.

The director dissolves himself in the screenplay, studying it to it’s very depths in such a manner that all the minor details too fail to escape his/her insight. After reading the screenplay, the director begins to visualize it according to the perspective provided by the screenplay along with his own, ultimately merging the both and moving ahead with the next process of pre-production.

Next, the director and the producer have a talk. During this talk, they talk about the cost friendly and efficient sets, a star cast that can do justice to the screenplay, a cinematographer who can play with light in the most efficient manner, an editor who is good with splits, a costume designer who can add all the satin and glimmers to the screen. After the discussion, a set designer is hired and he/she along with the director start working on the sets, making drawings and the architects construct their visualization. The set is made, while the director narrates his screenplay to the actors.

With everything finalized, the big day arrives, and the director is busy with the rehersal sessions with his/her cast. The director explains them the psychology of the characters at the moment and what action they will be performing in what manner. He/She also acts in order to demonstrate to the cast that what he actually visualizes. This leads us to believe that in order to be a director, one should definitely have a decent knowledge about acting. While the actors are preparing themselves, the director shortlists the costume and determines the depth of the make up required in the scenes. When all is explained to the costume and make up artists, the director takes a quick observation of the sets and finally starts collaborating with the cinematographer explaining him/her the shot, trying to explain the meaning of it to him/her and describing the camera angles, lights and shadows he/she desires. When all done with the cinematographer, the director faces the technical crew, i.e the light men, sound men etc and gives them precise instructions that they have to follow during the shooting. Finally the actors arrive on the set.

As the actors arrive on the set and get ready to give the shot, the director takes a quick check that whether all the technicians are in their places and the camera is set perfectly according to the shot. Any problem that is noticed in the costume or make up of the actors is corrected right away. The director asks the actors to take their assigned places and calls ‘Action’. At that very moment, the camera starts rolling and the actors start to portray their characters. If the shot goes well and fine then that’s excellent but even if it lacks a little something from the director’s perspective then the director immediately cuts in the shot and the shot portion is discarded and the camera is rolled all over again. This process is continued until and unless the director obtains the desired shot.

In the very same manner the rest of the film is filmed. During all this time, apart from the job that a director is performing, he/she has to also keep on checking the costs that the producer is paying for and has to take special care that the expenses don’t cross the forbidden line. Therefore, retakes are cut down for filming on film is costly and it is kept in mind that scenes are well rehearsed before filming.

When the filming is completed, the shots are sent for editing. There is a saying that directors should be kept away from the editing table for the shot filmed is the director’s baby and each and every shot of the filmed footage is too precious for him to edit out. Thus, many a times, the editor works alone, from a viewer’s perspective editing out the five hour long footage to a viewer friendly two and a half hour footage. This edited footage is refined, filtered, altered on the basis of sound etc by technicians and released. If the director can’t resist then a director-edited cut which is longer than the regular cut is also released after some time.

After the release of the film, the fate of the director is directly proportional to the fate of the film. The director can also win an Academy Award or even a Golden Raspberry award for his work. What ever the case might be, good or bad, a director is a director.

Anyone enthusiast enough could become a director. One can be a film school student, or one can just be a human being. All that one should have is the flair to tell the stories in a visual manner and if one has that flair, voila! You can be a director!

Guido Contini (Nine) : You kill your film several times, mostly by talking about it. A film is a dream.  You kill it writing it down, you kill it with a camera; the film might come to life for a moment or two when your actors breathe life back into it - but then it dies again, buried in film cans. Mysteriously, sometimes, in the editing room, a miracle happens when you place one image next to another so that when, finally, an audience sits in the dark, if you’re lucky -- very lucky - and sometimes I’ve been lucky - the dream flickers back to life again.  That’s why I’m secretive.

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