Saturday, 9 December 2017

Film Review : TUMHARI SULU (2017)



Tumhari sulu (2017) has a storyline a lot of urban families can relate to. Especially, the women from urban and semi urban setups who have unrealised, professional aspirations will like the film as it depicts the day to day chores of Sulekha, an able house wife beaming with energy and eager to explore spheres of life other than family. As a matter of fact, it is a film that I can relate myself to. Sulu’s character goes quite close to my sister’s and to many other more-than-life-housewives, who are not just mere housewives and yearn to do a lot more in their lives. Perhaps the feeling of being removed from one’s passions creates such an unbearable and claustrophobic void for these women that stories of their struggles can uplift the morale of those in different, if not, better conditions. I feel compassion for such women whose primary role is perceived in merely rearing a child and taking care of the household and I genuinely empathize with their sufferings and concerns of creating an environment conducive for their whole family to flourish and excel.

The eponymous film shows the protagonist, Sulekha aka Sulu (Vidya Balan) as a very cheerful, enterprising, doting housewife. Despite her failures - academic (she has failed 12th on three occasions) and professional (her economic ventures have gone astray in the past), her motivations to excel are always alive and ready to burst. She is always able, if not at the first sight, to eventually leave a lasting impression on everyone she meets. With all her prizes and accolades in trivial local competitions like Limbu chamcha, Sulekha embarks on a new journey when she lands herself in a well paying job as a late night Radio Jockey. Her newly found vocation disrupts her family life and she is seen failing to conform to her role of a house wife. The film’s central issue is thus Sulekha’s struggle in coping up with her career as a Radio Jockey and her married life. The end suggests a seeming success for Sulekha on both fronts, however a somewhat detailed analysis could suggest otherwise.

Analysis: For reasons of better understanding the protagonist and the unfolding of the film, let’s divide the film in 3 parts: the transition of the protagonist from sulekha to Sulu, then, from Sulu to sulu and finally, from sulu to Sulekha. (Do note the careful use of capital/small lettered ‘s’ in the three parts as it has been used to personify the agency of the protagonist).

Part I (sulekha to Sulu) – Despite all odds, sulekha manages to organize herself in a way to suit the betterment of her family. The film aptly starts with a lemon-and-spoon race (Nimbu chamcha) which is all about maintaining one’s balance. So, right from the first shot, emerging winner in a lemon-and-spoon competition is a prior confirmation of sulekha’s competence as a champion house wife (the small letter ‘s’ signifying the protagonist’s primary, accepted and the only role in the household as a housewife). In another scene, later, Ashok, the husband is standing on a stool and is shown fixing a bulb. This again speaks figuratively of the balance in the family. Ashok gives and arranges for light in the family and he is supported by sulekha who holds the stool he stands on. Her withdrawal of support makes Ashok’s position vulnerable to instability. Ashok is dependent on Sulu and the household cannot work without their mutual cooperation.  
As mentioned before, sulekha is interested in exploring avenues for contributing towards her family and for her self-growth. Her financially impossible dream of launching a commercial venture like a taxi company of women is ridiculed by her sisters and other family members. sulekha is an expert in voice modulation, she impersonates actors and her family members compliment and at times, tease her on that account. In fact, her singing skills and her naiveté are mocked at by RJ Albeli Anjali. Her attempts of finding a job and supporting her family finally succeed when her mellifluous voice and her desire to prove herself catch Maria’s attention (Neha Dhupia) and a late night radio show titled, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ is launched to cater to lonely souls and supposedly to all those needing emotional and psychological support. sulochana outperforms and turns into an overnight celebrity, Sulu.

Part II (Sulu to sulu) – Sulu’s immediate success is a life changer for the protagonist and her family too. Sulu enjoys her work, her colleagues respect her for what she is and she finally feels at peace at herself, for finding a job that she likes and that pays well and for being acknowledged at work. From a housewife sulochana, the protagonist becomes RJ Sulu, aware of her strengths and using them with conscience.

Both the halves of the film start with a discussion among the family members about what the protagonist should do in her life. If the first half deals with the necessity of sulekha taking up a job (to support her family) the second puts the reputation and the timings of her job in the forefront of the discussion. The respectability of a woman lies in doing only certain kind of jobs and Sulu’s ‘late night’ radio job is sneered at. The late night working hours are seen as an obstacle in the family life and Sulu is seen failing to serve as a dutiful mother. Further, her son, Pranav’s suspension on account of stealing a mobile phone and immoral conduct of selling (obscene) videos is attributed to Sulu’s failure of not attending properly to her son. Such a position ascribes a child’s responsibility uniquely at the hands of the women/the mother. Sulu feels morally responsible for Pranav’s conduct and finally decides to leave her job as she is not able to juggle her new found career with her primary occupation of a mother.

In this phase, Sulu becomes sulu i.e. she decides not to speak ‘her’ voice since societal and familial compulsions make her speak in a voice that is not hers. Figuratively thus, she is forced to permanently impersonate and the voice of her real Self is muted forever. In fact, Sulu’s ability to impersonate others reflects her versatile position - capable of speaking numerous voices, of assuming different alter/native ‘subject’ positions. That she has to give up an activity so dear to her and which is in fact her forte becomes the biggest failure of the portrayal of Sulochana.

Part III (sulu to Sulekha) The transformation to sulu is momentary and the protagonist finally becomes Sulekha, by being able to find her own bearing. She is however led to take a compromising position. It is due to such a position, I feel, that sulu again becomes Sulekha, but a renewed one at that. This is because the protagonist quits her job as a Radio Jockey, a job she likes and is quite passionate about. However, the twist in the film is the protagonist finding a new commercial venture (regrettably again, the new idea of catering business is christened on her husband’s name, Ashok catering services). The film ends thus on a fairly conservative note. She is again a housewife, content with her family and a job that pays reasonably well and importantly, is ‘acceptable’ to others. As the title suggests, disappointingly, ‘Tumhari sulu’ is a film of the feminine failing to be herself or conversely, succeeding to be someone else that she is not or doesn’t aspire to be. The radio show, ‘Tumhari Sulu’ is suggestive of a close association between friends in general and at a deeper level, an intimacy between husband and wife in the context of the film. The decision to withdraw from the night show means ‘Sulu’ will neither be able to give and share her joys to the whole world nor will be able to unburden unknown people of their pains and sorrows. On the personal front, the title bears a sense of possession by the male and the female’s willing submission to the same. The end of the film shows a compromise of the Subject to willingly oblige to the other and in the process, to be ‘the other’. The three phases described here can be resumed as the transition of the protagonist from a mere object to a Subject and then to become a subject again.

Though the film has a very good topic for discussion, it has a few threads left unexplored. Tightening such loose ends would have made a stronger film. Let’s see a few of them here.

The film certainly needed a stronger portrait of Sulekha and the film maker could have used other threads for a better handling of the central character. For ex: take the sudden disappearance of Pranav, the son after his suspension from school. This could have been resolved via Sulu’s voice at the radio. Her sexuality calling on her son to return home could consolidate her professional and personal position. The film could have portrayed a few other instances of Sulu helping needy people. Helping women of her age group or women facing harsher hardships would have been welcome. A wonderful incident to include would be the husband himself calling Sulu for his solution. This would have made Sulu look in a mirror, at her own life but from her husband’s point of view and her perspective would make a very interesting case. Another suggestion would be a scene showing Pranav’s friends taking jibes at his mother’s new job and this could have accentuated the vulnerability of Sulekha’s profession.

Ashok’s job at one point seems in jeopardy and there is no further lead on that front. His quitting the job or better, changing the job to suit his wife’s career could have been a way to sort things out. Also, his disrespect at the hands of the new boss could have been further explored as the professional life often-always impacts one’s personal life. Then, Ashok’s insistence on Sulu bearing another child could have tested the protagonist all the more as one of the best ways to keep a woman busy at home is to make her at the receiving end of child production. A sister for Pranav and discussion on that would have definitely advanced a stronger woman out of Sulekha. Sulu is consumable sexuality incarnated – consumed at home and what she can sell in the market is her silky voice. This ‘sexy’ voice is her gate way for the RJ job. Neha Dhupia can’t offer Sulu another RJ job, to work during the day which is a sad proposition akin to a prostitute losing her market after her waning of the body. Sulu may have a beautiful voice but that can be used only at night.

The film also shows the importance and the repeated intervention of the family in matters that pertain strictly to Sulllu’s three member-household. While it is true that in a large number of cases in India, even when nucleus family has become ‘the’ type of family setup in urban cities, families/elders have a say on things that happen in a couple. Choices available to women thus depend directly on the elders/the larger family acting as a chief mediator in decision making. It could be interesting to look at things differently without family intervention. A few good things about the film - Sulekha has a lot of potential and its instant recognition by Neha Dhupia speaks volumes of what recognition/acknowledgement can do to raw talent. Likewise, a wife/woman or for that matter anyone who has failed academically is not always a loser and Sulekha’s enthusiasm of trying to prove herself as something more than a mere housewife is inspiring and a huge take away from this film. Neha Dhupia and Vidya Balan are reasonably good in their acting, the (female) taxi drivers role and her sympathy with Sulekha show how women across different class positions are faced with similar problems, one of them being - the male gaze.

All in all, the film is laden with decent amount of conservative overtones. The humour episodes are good and entertaining but cannot compensate for the gravity of the position accorded to Sulekha. Vidya Balan’s impersonation and her attempts of saying a hello full of sexual innuendos do give a good laugh. Conclusion: A good story with lots of promise falls short in making a solid case for Sulu. It eventually makes a case for Sulekha.

Sunday, 24 July 2011

Poème d’anniversaire

Les raisins de la sagesse mûrissent plus en saison d'hiver,
l'essence du vin rajeunit plus qu'en vieillit la chaire,
l'horloge du coeur suinte et voici coulent mes voeux sincères...

Que Le Temps vous enrichisse, cher maître, d'une année de l'encens, son parfum, 
etant garni des crépuscules divins et des aurores bénis du Saint !

Sunday, 3 July 2011

LOVE VÉLO

Le vélo est un symbole de la jeunesse. On se souvient du moment où on nous achète un vélo. Cette nouvelle possession d’objet suscite d’emblée des remarques et des conseils de la part des parents telles « Fais Attention », « Sois prudent, Pas de bêtises », « Du sérieux, t’es grand maintenant ! » Maintes autres suggestions se font entendre mais on ne les écoute plus. On est déjà parti sur la route de l’imaginaire : nouveau vélo, accès à la fraternité vélociste, rêve de l’image du beau gosse séduisant les jolies filles de l’école…

Ce rêve imaginaire se réalise le lendemain où on brandit la nouvelle bicyclette à la James Bond qui se la joue avec son dernier modèle de bagnole. On se sent fier de la possession toute récente. Finie l’époque où il fallait marcher jusqu’à l’arrêt de bus qui ramène les écoliers et les lycéens comme un camion délivrant les fromages cramoisis. Désormais, le monde nous appartient. On est sur ses pieds, prêts à découvrir les chemins inconnus, inexplorés de la vie. La fraternité vélociste nous accueille les bras ouverts et on embrasse son slogan - LOVE VÉLO!

Friday, 1 July 2011

Yeh Dil mang(u)é more...

Je savoure en ce moment le délice de la mangue et suis sous l’effet du bouquet de souvenirs qui envahissent tout mon être. Le parfum du fruit souffle ces mots en moi. Je délecte le parfum et se plonge sans efforts apparents dans les eaux bénites de l’enfance perdue…

Une journée de vacances estivales commençait avec un thé hâtif suivi d’un petit déjeuner consommé super rapide, histoire de regagner le monde sportif en attente. Le cœur courait vite aux champs où s’unissaient les équipes de quartiers. C’est sur ces vastes champs de bataille, encore épargnés de la civilisation que se disputait presque tous les jours des vacances estivales la coupe régionale du cricket. Pas de sponsors, ni de ‘cheerleaders’. Pourtant, le jeu aussi intense, sévère qu’un vrai match de la coupe mondiale. Ces matchs de cricket de quartiers, commencés très tôt le matin s’enchaînaient, l’un suivant les autres. La vengeance de la défaite et le désir de la suprématie nourrissaient l’appétit des joueurs jusqu'à midi et demi, l’heure de pointe de la canicule. C’est à ce moment-là qu’on attendait le plus. 

Le Soleil qui souffrait de l’overdose alcoolique de la veille avait souvent mal à la tête. Il avait l’habitude de vomir profusément la chaleur et crachait ardemment de temps à l’autre la pourriture mangée la veille. Alors que le soleil se purgeait, les enfants et les joueurs fatigués, s’adonnaient au plaisir des mangues. Une colonne de manguiers côtoyait le terrain où se passaient les matchs. A l’heure de la pause, avant une heure de l’après-midi, selon un protocole réglé, les joueurs atteignaient les arbres. Il suffisait de courir auprès des manguiers et y attendre. Les petits montaient aussitôt sur les arbres et cueillaient les fruits dociles. En moins de 2 minutes, tout le bon fruit, terrassé, est prêt à affronter sa destinée : la consommation. Chacun a droit à un nombre de mangues qui lui plaise. Il ne faut pas croire que toute cette scène ait lieu en parfaite harmonie. Se produisent çà et là des engueulades sur la propriété du fruit. De grosses injures pimentent l’ambiance. On se moque alors à la bonne franquette de querelleurs de ces prises de bec… Au nom des ancêtres damnés et de la famille maudite rappelée, tout le monde s’empresse bientôt de consommer leur part.

Quel drôle de scène ! Tout le monde, absorbé à combler sa faim, s’y engage, s’y perd. On s’en fout des bouches, de bons maniérismes, tel un enfant joyeux, tout nu courant sans pudeur devant les invités. On se ressemble à des bêtes affamées, ravageant la proie. Que c’est bon, ce goût fort, aromatisé de la mangue. Quelques unes sont bien sucrées, succulentes, les autres moins bonnes, un peu acides même. Mais, ce n’est pas grave, bordel... On en dévore quand même. On vit le moins bon aussi intensément que le plus sucré. On mange à sa faim, à sa guise jusqu’ à en avoir assez.   

Du goût de la mangue, émane une fraicheur de fleurs. Elle vous inonde les poumons, envahit le cœur et l’air parfumé pénètre tout le corps. L'état extatique actualise aussi longtemps que perdure la saveur du fruit. Il faut noter que d’une part, cette expérience, on la rajeunit à chaque fois que le charme du fruit nous séduit; d’autre part, la jouissance sensorielle, vous met à la disposition un bouquet de souvenirs garnis.   

C’est ainsi qu’aujourd’hui, après tant d’années, l’odorat de la mangue me rappelle tout de suite l’enfance. Ça, c’est un constat. Véridique. J’ai remarqué qu’entre amis, dès que l’on parle de la mangue, on revient à notre enfance, chacun de mes amis confessant la quantité mangée (commençant par une modeste douzaine de mangues). Bien sûr qu’il faut exclure de cette quantité le nombre encore plus grand de mangues volées à la ferme et bouffées toutes crues.

Le verbe ‘bouffer’ convient juste à décrire la précipitation et la joie avec lesquelles on engloutissait ces fruits. « Engloutissaient », cet usage d’imparfait désigne la quotidienneté et la nature inaccomplie de l’action, comme si ce ne serait jamais possible de se rassasier. Un contraste intéressant entre le régulier de tous les jours cédant à la folie de la passion de la mangue. Hélas ! Quel plaisir de ne manger qu’une somme démesurée de trentaines, quarantaine de mangues. Rien que cela et une gorgée d’eau fraiche mettant un point final à la longue course de la gourmandise matinale.

Tuesday, 26 October 2010

Temple

The scorching sunlight has made me weary and tired. I am a wounded soldier, lost in this labyrinthe, stranded alone in this unknown territory. I wonder what my fellow soldiers are doing right now, at this moment. Have they been captured, tortured or even killed? Have they revealed our pursuits? Is someone searching me, showing my photo and promising rewards to whosoever that finds me dead or alive? Thoughts and questions leave me blinded as much as this burning heat. With no more provisions left with me, I have no more choices left but to continue. I had been walking looking for food, water and shade for the last 8 hours. Up from the valley, I could see this structure and I wondered if I would get what I have been looking for. This place seemed so close from there, but, in reality, it was an illusion. The closer it appeared to my deceiving vision, the more distanced it was to my debilitating legs.

From the top of the hill, one would have referred to it as a desolate, abandoned house still mourning in the memory of the lives that it sheltered. It had nothing to boast about. A mediocre architecture, the cascading roofs and a couple of neatly aligned windows gave the impression of a descent poor man's shelter. One could see the electricity poles and the suspending wires: remnants of its recent habitation. The house stood at an awkward position. No contact whatsoever was possible from either sides of the road and it looked as if the mass of bricks and straw was detached from the human civilisation by ages in time and light years in distance. I was afraid of approaching this place, fear of being caught hovering in my thoughts every now and then. If anyone has seen me on the way and informed them to expect me at this temple in some hours, they are bound to patrol this place. What if they are expecting me here? What if they have purposely left the clothes and other insignia of my friends, as a reminder for their inconsolable families? What if they have deliberately spilled the very life of my mates to test my dying patience?

Expecting the worst, I give in and I approach this structure with a pumping heart and careful vision. The vast deserted area had belittled the place earlier on, but down here, resides a charming edifice. The sober look and the modest design can be experienced only from a closer introspection. In fact, none of the beauty of this place could be seen from up there. However, when I reached here, I felt I was home, back to my village, cows grazing in the backyard, unpleasant but the familiar odour of the sheep waste and their constant bleating. The place is covered with trees, plants and wild weeds growing in unison and cool breeze could bring you the smell of soils of distanced, faraway lands. From the veranda, I realize being in the safe hands of an old, holy temple in ruins. This same place that had appeared to be a house is in fact a place of worship. Entering the temple is an experience devoid of any thoughts. The space is so neatly sheltered from the heat, that the cold touch of the surface of the floor gives a tempting urge to relax and recover. It is pitch dark here and there doesn't seem to be an idol dominating the scene, but a faint perfume of incense, some flowers and a meek lantern lay untouched away in the corner. Further away in the corner, to my sheer delight, I can identify two known exhausted bodies almost in the state of blissful meditation.

Tuesday, 12 October 2010

'The' moment of any concert


  
Music concerts of any kind are remembered for a few special moments. The(se) special moment(s) perfume the concert(s). The perfume on a person helps him/her get noticed without necessarily being seen. A gentleman, engrossed in a charming conversation, may get distracted by his olfactory sense, and tries to search the origin of the fragrance and the beauty carrying it. The same applies to concerts. These performances, without those rare moments, remain as they were: bad, mediocre, good, dazzling. The uniqueness in each of the concerts lies within the realms of those few memorable moments that enable us to retrieve, relive and cherish the spectacle again and again.

However, there are a few memorable moments that stand out wanting for appreciation. It is that particular moment, the scented one, which functions as the identifier of the concert in the catalogues of memory. While discussing about a past concert, one can reconnect to the program saying, “Oh yes! That was the moment when the frenzied crowd, dancing, reached the stage” or “you remember the concert where we were seated just besides the percussionist”. The special moments, to name a few, can be the deafening silence, a giant uproar of the audience or the respectful awe, as per the modalities of the conventions of the concert.

It is also an observation that the ‘precious’ moment at times is the culmination of a series of events; the events being nothing but the different elements of the concert like musical pieces, songs or the different rhythms for elaboration of a raga. The nature of these events can thus be thematic, rhythmic, temporal or any other. Such events, as independent entities, have no individual existence and they gain meaning only from their relationships with other events. We therefore probably tend to compare for instance the first part of the concert with the second or the third or vice verse. The first part of the concert thus may look better organised or otherwise with respect to its counterparts.

The collaborative effort among the separate events takes a certain time, paving way to ‘the moment’ of the concert.  It is probably due to this reason that the excerpts of music clips on Youtube do not seem as soul stirring as live performances. The element of time factoring in different events is crucial as much as that it constitutes the key to understand the true expression of the individual acts involved. Considering the time element, it can be said that the moment of the concert becomes metaphorically, the point, deep down in the earth, which beholds a natural source of water. The vast, natural reserve created over the ages by the patient, incessant, perpetual trickling of droplets. The special, divine, sublime ‘moment’ similar to the source of water nourishes the imagination and creative instincts of man bearing new seeds of ideas and visions.

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Mausam de la Mousson!

Il a plu... On sent la fraîcheur envahir tout le pays. La Terre mouillée des pluies, le vol des oiseaux dans le ciel bleu dissipé, les beaux chants d’oiseaux et un brin de lumière entrant sur la scène de l’azur, presque comme un enfant qui, caché derrière les rideaux, regarde et sourit aux invites de la maison...

Les feuilles sont toutes vertes, baignées par les averses. Elles entretiennent toujours les gouttes naturelles qui leur ont rendu visite tout a l’heure. Quelques gouttes se reposent sur les feuilles, les tiges, les fleurs comme les diamants dans les cases bleu foncé en velours. Quelques unes patientent, tout simplement… les autres se forment une colonie et s’initient à une chute. Bientôt, l’ensemble atteint la terre d’où tout a commencé. Quelques autres gouttes d’eau formée en colonie attendant leur route du salut s’écrasent sur la peau d’une jeune fille qui frémit des sensations au-delà de l’univers de mots. Les averses ont remué les couleurs terrestres. Les feuilles de toutes couleurs se ressemblent à une aquarelle terminée sous peu. Les couleurs jeunes sur cette création ne sont visibles qu’aux yeux de l’artiste dans son studio. Elles sont là, comme les fleurs afin d’être cueillies pour les offrandes.

Beaucoup de feuilles sont ainsi rajeunies, au moins le parait-il. Or, quelques unes, vieillies, laides, desséchées, écloses se sont perdues à la poussière. Elles attendent d’être balayées le lendemain matin par les éboueurs. Entre temps, elles restent à l’écart, immobiles en portant le chapeau, “Ici Git”.

Thursday, 30 September 2010

Lord of all!


O Parmananda!

Whether it be the noon or the rising moon
be it the day of fools or the day of doom,

You are the lord who does the trick on
and on,

Trick on one, anyone, someone and everyone....
You play a prank on
all, be a pros or the boss,
you con them all
!


You are great and we are small,
Parmananda! The cunning Lord...
the sunset of this saturday, dont fool us and do spare us all...


(On occasion of Fool's day)

Saturday, 4 September 2010

Ecrire ou ne pas écrire?

L’écriture est certainement une activité bien difficile, au moins, pour moi, c’est le cas. Je me demande comment les auteurs arrivent à exprimer leurs propos avec des précisions voulues. Le fait que ces artistes ne construisent tout un monde entier rassemblant au monde réel qu’à travers les mots, cela me dépasse et je ne les lis que sous un regard admiratif.

L’écriture pour moi est une aventure et quand je suis possédé de ce désir ardent d’écrire, je peux m’arrêter n’importe où, sans penser à ce que les autres penseront de moi. J’ai tendance à me défouler de cette vague de mots aussitôt qu'elle m’envahit. Des fois j’ai bien envie d’écrire des choses, des choses sans grand importance qui me viennent à la tête, sans qu’on demande l’esprit d’en fournir le contenu. D'ailleurs, ce besoin d’écrire n’est que la plupart du temps, éphémère. Il ne se présent qu’un moment. C’est un métro qui attend deux minutes à la station. C’est le train de la motivation et du désir en partance de pays inconnus. Si vous avez la chance d’y monter, vous vous proposez un voyage à travers les belles vallées d’imagination. Vous y goûtez des plats de sensations différentes. Rien n’y est interdit. Or, si vous manquez le train, vous loupez une découverte à tout jamais. Le train est là pour deux minutes. Deux minutes plus tard, la gare est déserte. Le silence, le vent froid, l’horloge noire incessamment mobile avec des aiguilles en lumières vertes fluorescentes, les papiers d’emballage de bonbons, les publicités, les papiers déchirés de journaux, les mégots, les tasses de café en plastique : bref les miettes de l’humanité morte.

Dans les instants qui dirigent le vouloir écrire, les mots s’organisent parfaitement comme une colonie de fourmis. Ils sont, dans ces instants précis, comme la source d’eau naturelle. Ils coulent facilement, sans efforts, remplissant le blanc du papier. Ils créent un monde où se nourrissent la flore et la faune merveilleuse et resplendissante. Dans ces espaces de Noir/Blanc poussent des végétaux de formes différentes. Chaque entité a une vie, une existence chronométrée. Chaque espèce vit d’une hiérarchie dont le contrôle est au-delà de leurs pouvoirs. Les mots vivent de règles conçues par l’homme et dont le fonctionnement les mots ignore. La virgule donne un espoir aux mots qu’ils seront enchainés de suite par leurs confrères. Le point justifie la fin d’un peuple et la reprise de la phrase indique sa renaissance. Les conjonctions font les mariages et unissent des groupes grammaticaux différents et rendent à leur existence commune un certain sens. Quand la motivation resurgit, c’est un moment de jouissance. Or, des fois, justement, c’est le contraire… Le désir d’écrire est poussé par la bonne volonté du cœur et non de l’esprit, et dans ces circonstances, quoi écrire, ça pose un problème à l’écrivain.

C’est ce qui se passe en ce moment, je me suis mis à écrire mon petit blog. Et quand j’ai ouvert un nouveau fichier Word pour la rédaction, je suis exactement comme le blanc de l’écran. Je n’ai plus aucune idée dans ma tête. Aucune couleur de pensée n’y joue. Aucune idée ne s’y promène. C’est comme si l’esprit était en grève et les travailleurs (les nuerons) faisaient une grasse matinée. Les transports publics des idées étaient immobiles. J’ai l’impression que le temps est figé à tout jamais. La tête ne demande rien, donc pas de besoin de manger, de boire, de penser. La vie va continuer sans rien faire mais cela jusqu'où ?

Friday, 3 September 2010

The last train


Old beard, tired legs and the hands shaking,
his feet cold, weary of walking,
Weakened heart and a lonely soul,
sunken face and a threatened phase
comes to catch the train that gave
unrealised dreams and fame.

Noisy Station, but no one around
is this the station where memories abound?
similar faces of unknown heads,
A hard day today now fades...
The last train is yet to come,
It's already left, go home, say some.
another day, come early and you will see,
thousand heads trying to flee.
Sun will rise and so, will the train,
Wait for tomorrow and forget the pain,
For he who walks on an untrodden lane
never dies a life so mundane.

Thursday, 2 September 2010

Le pourquoi de ce blog

L’écriture est certainement une activité bien difficile, au moins, pour moi, c’est le cas. Je me demande comment les auteurs arrivent à exprimer leurs propos avec des précisions voulues. Le fait que ces artistes ne construisent tout un monde entier rassemblant au monde réel qu’à travers les mots, cela me dépasse et je ne les lis que sous un regard admiratif.

L’écriture pour moi est une aventure et quand je suis possédé de ce désir ardent d’écrire, je peux m’arrêter n’importe où, sans penser à ce que les autres penseront de moi. J’ai tendance à me défouler de cette vague de mots aussitôt qu'elle m’envahit. Des fois j’ai bien envie d’écrire des choses, des choses sans grand importance qui me viennent à la tête, sans qu’on demande l’esprit d’en fournir le contenu. D'ailleurs, ce besoin d’écrire n’est que la plupart du temps, éphémère. Il ne se présent qu’un moment. C’est un métro qui attend deux minutes à la station. C’est le train de la motivation et du désir en partance de pays inconnus. Si vous avez la chance d’y monter, vous vous proposez un voyage à travers les belles vallées d’imagination. Vous y goûtez des plats de sensations différentes. Rien n’y est interdit. Or, si vous manquez le train, vous loupez une découverte à tout jamais. Le train est là pour deux minutes. Deux minutes plus tard, la gare est déserte. Le silence, le vent froid, l’horloge noire incessamment mobile avec des aiguilles en lumières vertes fluorescentes, les papiers d’emballage de bonbons, les publicités, les papiers déchirés de journaux, les mégots, les tasses de café en plastique : bref les miettes de l’humanité morte.

Dans les instants qui dirigent le vouloir écrire, les mots s’organisent parfaitement comme une colonie de fourmis. Ils sont, dans ces instants précis, comme la source d’eau naturelle. Ils coulent facilement, sans efforts, remplissant le blanc du papier. Ils créent un monde où se nourrissent la flore et la faune merveilleuse et resplendissante. Dans ces espaces de Noir/Blanc poussent des végétaux de formes différentes. Chaque entité a une vie, une existence chronométrée. Chaque espèce vit d’une hiérarchie dont le contrôle est au-delà de leurs pouvoirs. Les mots vivent de règles conçues par l’homme et dont le fonctionnement les mots ignore. La virgule donne un espoir aux mots qu’ils seront enchainés de suite par leurs confrères. Le point justifie la fin d’un peuple et la reprise de la phrase indique sa renaissance. Les conjonctions font les mariages et unissent des groupes grammaticaux différents et rendent à leur existence commune un certain sens. Quand la motivation resurgit, c’est un moment de jouissance. Or, des fois, justement, c’est le contraire… Le désir d’écrire est poussé par la bonne volonté du cœur et non de l’esprit, et dans ces circonstances, quoi écrire, ça pose un problème à l’écrivain.

C’est ce qui se passe en ce moment, je me suis mis à écrire mon petit blog. Et quand j’ai ouvert un nouveau fichier Word pour la rédaction, je suis exactement comme le blanc de l’écran. Je n’ai plus aucune idée dans ma tête. Aucune couleur de pensée n’y joue. Aucune idée ne s’y promène. C’est comme si l’esprit était en grève et les travailleurs (les nuerons) faisaient une grasse matinée. Les transports publics des idées étaient immobiles. J’ai l’impression que le temps est figé à tout jamais. La tête ne demande rien, donc pas de besoin de manger, de boire, de penser. La vie va continuer sans rien faire mais cela jusqu'où ?

सुना था मेरा खुदा तो सिर्फ मिट्टी मे ही हैं और वो तो सिर्फ मेरा ही हैं जो इस मिट्टी मे हैं ना जाने कितनी सदिया वो मुझे देखकर बोले, तु म...