Sunday, June 28, 2015


There is a sequence in Killa where Chinu, a kid sulking from his mother rides onto a boat with a stranger - a fisherman who probably goes about his days drinking and well, fishing. The diesel motor hums and stutters over the sound of the sea, perhaps there are seagulls in the distance too. Not many words are spoken between the kid and the fisherman. You are allowed to take in the moment, feel the child's sense of wonder, the thrill and the fear which comes with it. When Chinu asks the fisherman how deep the sea there is, you almost catch yourself thinking the same thing. The answer is something to the effect of "well, it's deep". When he asks when would they return, the answer is after they catch some fish. Of course. When they are back there is roasted fish which Chinu has never tasted before and a little weary hearted wisdom from the drunk fisherman which kinda makes the kid long for home. I watch films for moments like these.

The story is set in the konkans - it's raining almost every other shot and it's always green and always beautiful - trees, lakes, rivers, the sea and the fort. If I imagine paradise now it would probably be a village in the konkans. There is not much by way of a plot, and it's better for the lack of it and all the more evocative. A child and his mother move to a new place to make a new start after the father is gone after probably a prolonged and painful illness. The performances are very natural - the pains and the pleasures of dislocation, of blending in, of finding friends, of being a single parent and of braving on all richly portrayed with quiet glances, silent reflections and sometimes easy, sometimes unsure smiles. There is unspoken love all over it's frames - between a child and his mother, between a child and his friends, between the camera and nature.

I watched it alone and the experience was mixed with my own memories from childhood, adulthood too and I thoroughly enjoyed making those trips. It's a Marathi film with English subtitles and I am sure some of it's humour was lost on me. Not the poetry though. :)

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Giving In

I give in to this night
to this rain
to distant echoes
and to stray lights
neon signs with no missing letters
parking lots with puddles
puddles with the shimmering light from the lamp posts
trees in a line gently swaying
cars in a line not swaying at all
neighbourhood ice cream shops
empty swings
all washed clean
all smudged
ink and water
water and water
I give in to the crickets that forget to buzz sometimes
I give in to this music
I give in to the world of the sleeping
and to the world of all souls adrift
I give in.