Ascent of the Accents

Accents are an important part of embodying a character. To get into the skin of the character, its times, its setting and its lifestyle; the actor needs to go through a rigor from perfecting the look, mannerisms and the accent. Yet in Bollywood getting accents right has never been very important.

Now there are three types of inadequate accent deployers in Hindi cinema.

First is the "Self Subsumed" Variety of actors. Mostly these were actors of yesteryears, who rarely displayed interest in nailing accents, barring a few exceptions. They were kind of subsumed by their own stardom and felt that people would forget the linguistic setting of the character and just jump into the joyride of masturbating over their stars. You never paid to see the world of the protagonist come to life but you paid to see a display of the star’s persona, through the medium of a character. The star was the bone, muscle and skin, while the character was relegated to being a fairness cream to dress up this hollow stardom. These actors have somewhat met their expiry date, for modern audiences have grown intelligent and with the media blasting news and gossip information 24*7, the aura of these stars has disappeared. This requires of the modern actor to set aside his persona and work harder to build the myth-not of himself but out of the character.

The second type is that of the "Convenientalist” who attempted to pick and drop accents based on convenience. Wherever a scene requires emoting and a certain sense of disconnecting with the setting and requires the actor to rely on instincts and internalization of the emotion or wherever there is a certain emphasis on psychology, these actors gave up the accents. To their credit this resulted in better connect with the emotional truth of the character, though severely compromising the actual physical realism of the same. As Shilpa Shetty while preparing for the role of a Marathi maid in Rishtey(a pretty lousy movie at that), keeping the Marathi accent while portraying the role of the maid was the toughest but a challenge, she managed admirably in an otherwise pathetic movie. These actors are probably the more naturally gifted when it comes to acting but not as hardworking, allowing their actual personas to superimpose while portraying the character in hand. These unlike what many would know are probably closer to Strasburg’s method school of acting. Method acting being a word much maligned in India. Basically it involves portraying the emotional truth of the character by creating a commonality with one’s own life, drawing inspiration not just from the character but also finding connects with the thespian’s own experience.

The third is the “Stereotyper”. These are generally those up and coming actors who are forced to look for a quick fix solution, when there is no accent coach available, no prior experience of the character’s milieu for the actor and where the director is breathing down the throats of the upcoming actor to get the lines right. The director is a bully and the fresh face is kind of terrorized by the puppeteer. It is not a question of the character or the film anymore but the desire to break it big and get bread and butter on the table, clear the room rents. Such actors rarely have the time or the means to nail the accent. They prefer to compromise with a stop gap arrangement. It is like a brokered truce between them and the world of the protagonist. They decide that whatever stereotypes exist on the linguistic cultural milieu of the character, they would amplify those while subduing everything else. This way they would portray certain authenticities and at the same time play it safe, when their lack of awareness gives them no other option. This is a major travesty since an up and coming actor could fall prey to this lax behavior and shun the moral responsibility to the life of the character in the near future. It’s a bad practice which later in his career, he would have ended up perfecting and put him in the stage of inertia when it comes to this aspect of the role preparation. The respect for the lack of authenticity of the character, if gone from the minds of young actors; leads to loss of passion for the craft. This further reduces their work to a more hit the mark, get set and go type of portrayal. This is the type of work that evokes blazes of talent underneath a sea of mediocrity.

It needs to be seen as to how much Bollywood cinema itself would reform from within and the extent to which cinema goers deplore these types and elevate the process of nailing the accent, to its desired place among the stages of character preparation. In that regard it is a refreshing to see younger directors going like Habib Faisal, making their actors go through workshops, no matter how experienced they are in the industry. The younger crew is not intimated by the older echelons of stardom and is pushing new boundaries in filmmaking, one which is more professional and less egotistical than the days of the yore. The advent of accent coaches and on set trainers for accents has been a welcome change and is likely to improve the situation. But this is merely a cure and the process of imbibing the authentic accent must be an important part of every aspiring actor’s repertoire without which the consumer (the moviegoers), must reject the dish given to them. Until this happens we would be subjected to the cruel torture of Mithunda mouthing Tamil, with Coconut water in hand and lungis knee high, staring at us in cinematic irony.

2 Friends-Part 3

We went ahead discussing our lives, our wives, our kids (he lost his kid whom he had enlisted as part of a forcible enlistment camp in the interior forests) and finally he spoke of his mentor who had baptised him into the party. He spoke about the Comrade Sawant whose charisma had drawn him to millions and finally he spoke of seeing a gas camp where he had personally executed traitors to the cause. I wondered why he bore his heart out like this to me. I probably knew why. He was just as unsatisfied with his life as much as I was. He needed a punching bag to vent out and I was to play that prop whether I liked it or not (no individual choice in Redlands).


I spoke to him about finishing my degree once my dad died. But I soon realised that education alone was not going to be good enough. I moved to a blue city on a rainy night long before comrade Sawant built the wall to fortify the Redlands and to stop many of us refugees to escape into the other side. One of the red guards had caught me crossing a ridge where the wall was weak but I bribed him with my mom’s solitary jewellery (it was to help me sustain my first year). I also told Ravi about my first job in a factory and how much it humiliated me but I had to do it for the money. I wrote during my free time. I taught kids in my area the benefits of English literature and helped a lot of illiterates at the post office (which were fast becoming obsolete) who dictated letters for me to write. They all were down but they all had hopes that what lay in front of them was a life that was better than where they were right now. I had by then a steady income and then a friend of mine asked me to submit an article for an essay contest in the area newspaper. The newspaper was known for free press and open criticism of anyone (something which he couldn’t conceive was humanly possible and might have landed me at a gas camp). I got a call and won the contest. The prize was to work under a great writing mentor of my choice in the city. I choose Mr. Dandekar, my favourite writer since childhood. I wondered from his writings how life in a blue city would be like. (His books were banned in our red area during my childhood but the local black market was good enough to source them).


For six months I worked under him, closing envelopes, fixing appointments, going to readings and re drafting his work into manuscripts. Finally one day he saw a stray writing of mine on his desk (I had kept it deliberately amongst his file on my first month but he never noticed it). He was so impressed that he recommended me to another friend of his. This guy was Mr. Sequeira from Goa. He ran a publishing house and he was shoring up his space and needed new people in the sales team to get him more work. I got a chance as part of my job to interact with the best writers in town and my job was to convince them to get their work published with the Sequiera Press. I got a better offer as a manager in their competitor with a better pay called Cinderella publishers. This was a children’s only publishing house and it allowed me to have some time of my own. I decided to write seriously and having written my own first novel I sent it (as I was now well aware of the channels of distribution in the publishing world) to the same place where I worked. My boss was so impressed he commissioned the publishing very soon and the work got green lighted within a year. Within six months I was on the best sellers list and I got a book deal in New Jersey. I grabbed this chance and went there to work for New Universe Publishers Ltd. not as a manager or a sales guy but as a writer. The next five novels were to be done with this publisher but since I didn’t want to lose my independence I asked for a lower pay but just a one book deal. I wrote the second book called Freedom Day and it won me rave reviews. I took time off. Got married to an American girl called Diana and also have a son (who looks more like her than me). I came back after my parents funeral and during my sisters marriage but since my family moved to Navi Mumbai I never got a chance to meet up with you and come down here to reminisce my good old days in Panvel. So here I am----.


“Hmm” he looked at me clearly admiring my presence around him more than he did a few minutes back. Somewhere we both knew that despite the difference between our places in life, despite the wall between our worlds we were both products of human frailty. We were both unsatiated and equally hungry. We had a heavy lunch, munched paan, shared biddis (he also tried my cigar) and I finally felt very little time passed by the time I heard the familiar sound of the train engine whistle past us. My time had come I must go back to take my rightfully earned place and he had to do the same though he was given the same by forceful natures at play. I took my luggage and he helped me with it. I went inside the train. He got inside, hugged me and said I had changed his life. I looked at him gave him another hug. He asked me for one favour before I went. I told him I would be glad to do so.


He said please give me that Cuban Cigar case that you have if you don’t mind. I asked him if he just wanted the case or the cigars too. He patted me playfully and I gave him a box of ten cigars. For you alone I beamed. Then I asked him “would you not land in trouble in your place for using something upmarket like this”. He smiled you don’t get it do you, they would worship me for having this. I thought for a moment and then on realising what he meant flashed a chuckle. He left a very different man and I knew I had changed another life forever- The life of his son.

2 Friends-Part 2

It was raining hard and so today, I was told it would take some time for the trains to ply. I knew I didn’t have much time but I could squeeze in sometime for Ravi and this place which had been the very place I was born and bought up. I sat down on the bench and looked at the porters grumble, mothers yell at their children, inefficient ticket lines, improper maintenance and dirt laying all over the floor. Oh my god my mind was Americanising. I noticed a McDonalds in the other side of the station got my French fries (hygienic and without beef as per my mom’s instructions) and saw the various counters of book stores, food outlets and ATM machines on this station. These were outsourced to the private players it seems since the government didn’t have the funds (we always heed the stick never the carrot). I came back saw the time on my plane ticket and pressed inside my coat. I could smell the same sweat that my dad had when he came back from work. It had to do something with the air I thought. I sprayed the deodorant and that was it.


Hello a coarse voice from behind me addressed in my direction. I instantly recognised who it was. Ravi I beamed and hugged him tight not noticing the scrubs of dust on his factory uniform. He was after all my chuddy buddy. The people around noticed this weird mixing of classes that they were not used to or comfortable with in this part of the red country. I was the bourgeois the very top echelon of society they hated (or worse were brainwashed to hate).


How has your day been he asked me? Well it was different I told him. Getting back to ones roots is always enthralling to the mind. I could remember my days on the stations with baba. He could relate to those memories too with a sense of nostalgia. He looked at me with my coat suit, articulate manners and briefcases. He seemed impressed by me initially but then gave a stare. I knew a vitriolic attack or a well disguised verbal volley would happen back and forth and so I decided to divert him towards the tea shop. This place was close to our hearts since we came for our packet of biddi here during our heydays. We were big rowdies amongst the kids of the area. Their organs would throb and shudder in their pants and they would wet their underpants if they even heard our breaths. They were themselves pretty well evolved creatures since they could smell us like sniffer dogs from a distance. These kids were travelling from the city and from more affluent families than ours but they lived in our vicinity in private hostels which was near their college. Ravi wanted to plunder them, grab their attractive belongings and give it to the poor in the chawls. I just took them home to adore them. I never used them, he did.


I remember my grandfather telling me the story of a lion-The king of the jungle. Do you know why it is the king he said mimicking the lions grunt to my six year old horrified face. Why? I asked him. Because he never devours the prey that is not killed by him. He always consumes the flesh that is gotten out of his own hunt (well also includes his lioness but you know when you are a couple it is never me it is always us). He refuses to touch any animal that is found lying dead on the mat. It goes against his dignity. Oh my god grandpa that is scary I said still not able to get over the trauma that a herbivore went though. That’s not scary he said that’s the life of a royal, the man at the top. Everyone wants to be that man on the top. Every animal wants to be a lion. Every poor wants to be rich. Every weak wants to be strong. Every have not wants to be a have. You know why? He asked me. Why? I asked him back. Because we seek to improve our position. But what if we reach that improved position grandpa, then are we satisfied and happy? No he said. Why? I asked him in return. Because we want to be better always, better than what we are right now, good enough to be better and better enough to be the best which is never. Contentment with our present would lead to discontentment in the future. I wondered just about a year later what position the vultures, eagles, crows etc occupied in this animal hierarchy? I wondered why no one would want to be a scavenger by choice and everyone would want to be a man (even the lion is unsatisfied with his throne).


Coming back to the biddi shop my friend offered me the biddi. I removed my Cuban cigar from the golden case box. He looked at me and said “its people like you who use foreign commodities that cause the death of the biddi workers in Mohar”. I felt bad but said at least it is less likely to kill me than what he was smoking. He didn’t seem satisfied with my lame retort and I converted it into an apology for a friendly jibe once again. I enquired after his family’s health (both our parents being dead by then). He spoke about his wife who was revolutionary in the farmer’s revolt in Mohar. He felt proud that by their persistence they had gotten water to the village (years after the mineral water revolution), setup a biogas plant to generate power (with intermittent power cuts and without solar or even hydel or thermal energy) and started a municipal school (with teacher absenteeism, student dropouts and large no. of them coming to just have their quota of the days’ meal). He was proud to have brought that change and I showed the same pride in his achievement as one of my friends did when I got my first Maruti after I got my first job. I now knew what it felt to be on the shiner side of the grass (and unlike the proverb I didn’t find the other side greener).


I referred to him as Comrade Ravi Verma and he felt proud. I asked him if I could set him up for a job in the blue blood citadel at Marine Drive (a place where free movement of people wasn’t forbidden and anyone could apply for jobs). He took this as a jibe and smiled. You think I suffer he asked me. I said no worse I think you make everyone suffer. He was horrified. What would you a big shot blood thirsty business man who feeds on the blood of the poor know about our suffering? I said “I do boy for I was just the same not long ago”. I asked him if he felt the government could solve all issues. He said no but it was the best bet for the country and soon he believed the whole city and the entire state would bow down to the red fever under the leadership of the cult figure Comrade Sawant Saheb. I wondered if red blood party members alone would rise to the top or a common man could do the same. He said there would be no common man as we know him. Every man would get food, clothing, shelter, healthcare and education. Every man would get his needs fulfilled. Every man would have a better quality of life he said. I asked him are you sure everyman. He looked at me and he said “well, definitely everyone except for the ones who already have them like you”. I smiled and said I am sorry I had all these riches since so long. I have much more and your common man would become more common once he enjoys the fruits of the red labour. Each man would be a clone of his neighbour and would have nothing of consequence to speak of about himself. He would just among the others. I asked him if by getting all those basic facilities this so called man would want to outgrow his basic needs or remain in the perennial cocoon of the state. Possibly the man who is party member though might benefit more from this arrangement. I looked at him. He gave me a cold stare. I had hit a little hard this time and possibly there were a few ruffled feathers in the vicinity that could have overheard us. He took me to the rest room. You don’t know this place. This is not the place to criticise us. You might land up in trouble. I thanked him for friendly concern but wanted to question him if it wasn’t treason to his social loyalty. But I decided to leave it to that. I guess criticism was quite non alien to me in blueblood country where we could get away with cartoon caricatures of our leaders if they made even the smallest mistake in their day to day affairs.

2 Friends-Part 1

2 Friends
This was one of those crazy days. Days on which you have a sense of déjà vu, a feeling of been here done that. I was sitting on the railway platform covering myself in the shades that allowed the water to seep through their pores and giving me the feel of a drizzle. I grew up on the lanes of Panvel, my father a mill worker in Jyoti Textiles. He was a hard worker, a toiler who sweated till his brows smelt of asphalt.


In the factory there was a union of the workers. He was of course obligated to join it against his own will. He saw the union as a chain on his aspirations. The leader often a bully would dictate terms to the management through his clout amongst the workers and finally strike a deal that would benefit him and let the other workers remain where they were(as workers). It was basically increasing the bourgeois jurisdiction right into the union.


My father thought he was better of negotiating for a higher salary, bonus and incentives on his own. Often he felt the incentives didn’t amount to much for him and rarely reflected his performance on the factory floor. He felt that his hard work was not getting the notice that it needed while he was made to share the weight of his non performing workers. He worked harder put in two shifts and he saw his boss upgrade from a Porsche to a Mercedes. Why didn’t he benefit from his improvement he felt? His union leader quelled his mouth by adding two more terms in his next strike clause. He lost his cool one day and went to his employer. The HR didn’t bother to entertain him and half the people whom he worked for and used to sign his cheque month after month didn’t know who he was. He was as the peon said known by his ID card no. 007. The number I thought reflected on his personality ironically. He went to work the same way every day in the morning at 7 am to the factory. But on this particular day his walk carried an unhurried and an unassured manner. A calm demeanour bore testimony through his face. He would not be a hard worker pushing the envelope from today but a worker who would just go and collect the cheque on the end of every month and do his duty to the bare minimum.


My poor father had to contend with a unionism of another kind which by all means conceivable for the men of this world is relatable-(his home). Working hard when he would come back on the first of every month with his salary my mother would get her nonexistent bill for the household chores(adding 1% each month like a fixed bonus for 10 years), my sister plaguing him with personal care products to make her skin fairer and help her outwit (or should I say outbeautify) her more illustrious friends at school and myself a good for nothing college going confused soul(at that time) who was rejected by the academic establishment that had declared me an outcaste who needed to vent his anger by doing mundane slacking at the neighbourhood coffee house with his pseudo intellectual friends. What would happen with our lives we didn’t know but we were definitely concerned about the attack at the Tiananmen Square.


On my 25th birthday my father told me something that changed my life. It was his retirement day from the mill and his best friends had assembled (the union was conspicuous by its absence since a retired employee was an added diversion to the funds that they should get). They all spoke as if it was a condolence ceremony rather than a retirement one. “My friend” a worker who was 5 junior to my dad said “would not be amongst us from tomorrow”. I wondered what was up with these people. Then my father came on the dais and said “I don’t regret what I did but I could have been better. I worked hard toiled harder and yet saw men who didn’t even know me utilise the fruits of my labour. I sometimes wonder for whom I worked and for whom was I supposed to work. Was it for my boss, for society, for my union, for the company, for my wife’s bangles, for my daughters fashion quotient, for my son’s incompetence or ------ (a pause)? I worked for myself. Yet it took me an entire sentence, hell an entire life to realise that. I don’t have any regrets. Oh shit I do have regret. I wish I became the floor manager for I knew the best of the material and shop floor activities better than my superiors. I wish I was promoted to the post of an officer so that I could supervise the standards that I had set so meticulously in my work. I wish I had become a manager so I could influence every factor that could have added the latest machinery and made the brows of us workers less tiresome. I wish I owned the -------“. He was stopped. Speak no more for even the walls would have ears said a guy who was eavesdropping himself with a humping back. Well my father concluded in a fashion that even Vajpayee would have been proud of. I just have a regret. I didn’t lead my life for myself but for some stupid people. For my success I would credit no one and for my failures I wouldn’t blame anyone. I just have one advice today and that is for my son who is amongst us and for all the sons of my colleagues. “It is not your fault if you are born poor, but it is yours and yours alone if you die so.” Thus he got down from the dais.


Well since I kept invoking the union leader so consistently (without using expletives that I feel obligated to use but wouldn’t) I would throw some light on him too. Well he was a giantly man, fair for a man of his profession, well built by the force of nature and a man with a ruddy countenance. His walrus like moustache easily added a royal flavour to his persona and was the subject of attention at the end of every meal at the workers canteen. He had a son named Ravi. Ravi was a law abiding (laws laid down by his dad of course) son who would follow his father’s instruction just like students in a march past would follow their PT sir’s call. I sometimes wondered if he was a programmed android who was remotely operated by his father. A father who must have been a masquerading scientist leading a parallel life at night. How dumb of me!! A union leader and an innovator in the same breath, well that is quite an oxymoron.


So Ravi was my playmate, my chuddy-buddy. Both of us would go playing on the fields stealing sugarcane (at my native place), we would play cricket (to be precise break windows) and ogle at hot looking women who were beyond both of our control. Ravi was pained (in his own words) by the sufferings of the poor, oppressed and marginalised (why use three words for the same when they all mean the same). He felt that something strong and revolutionary must be done for their ilk. I was the day dreamer. I didn’t bother a damn about what the neighbourhood aunt told my mom across the compound wall. I didn’t care that I was teased in my uptown school to be a labourer’s son and hence, the last among equals. I didn’t care how many times I asked questions in class which were beyond the scope of the subject. I didn’t care how many times I made mistakes in running my daily errands. I didn’t care how many times people rejected my 1 million ideas to go from rags to riches. All I knew was I needed myself alone in this journey because no one else could resurrect me from where I was; certainly not the incompetent and insolent societal establishment and definitely not the government.


I woke up with a start from my sleep. I went to station masters room to know when the next train would come. I was to leave on a flight to New Jersey and I had come to Navi Mumbai to see my sister. Now I needed to meet my friend Ravi enroute to the airport. He had in his own words “booked an appointment” with my call centre accent trained secretary. He somehow felt she was from a whorehouse and he needed to have her at work for a day to relax his mind. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Freedom From Control

Rejects from the University of the Red Blood Revolution, We failed to see where we stood in the system. We failed to become part of the system. And since we weren’t part of the system we were not part of the society it represented. We were outcastes, the new age untouchables and the same system which claimed to protect our ilk (the man without a voice) refused to even patronise our talents. Disillusioned by the moorings of this system we decided that there must be revolution. Wait a minute it already had happened. We preferred to call it reform.


Why can’t the system foster me as a person? Why can’t it accept me for my weaknesses and utilise and leverage on my strengths. Surely I have a few or is it that I am a mountain of inferiority waiting to be gobbled up in a society of unequal equals. Equality, what a virtuous bitch she is. Can you measure natures by the prism of equality? Can a man who falls be equal to a man who rises? Can day be equal to night? Can the sun be equal to the moon? Can I be equal to you and can you be equal to me?????


I hate equality because it treats me like a clone of a fellow man. It ignores me for the unique qualities that I posses, qualities that no one else has at their disposal the way I do and it treats me on the pedestal of sameness. It reduces me to just another faceless face in the crowd. I am not you and you are not me and I am okay if you disagree with me as long as I have my right to disagree with you. Equality makes me hate myself because it finishes everything that was so specially made in the universe or to be plain unequal everything that was so specifically made in me. Which makes me come to a more important question? How do I measure equality? How do I call two things and deem them equal. Is it possible to equate Sachin Tendulkar of the old and Shahrukh Khan? Is it possible to equate two or more people? Is it possible to judge them on an imaginary scale and say he is better and he is worse??And then crucify their talents by now creating a new all congruent scale. Wow red bloods what a leveller you are, a leveller who grovels one and all to the very pits of human existence!!!!


I have belief in freedom and my exercising of freedom cannot be equated with yours. Our equality must start with our control over ourselves and (best of all) it must end right there. I have doubts in any other form of equality. I resent it; worse even abhor it to the point of not accepting its suzerainty over me. Life is a game of natures. Natures transcend scales, judgements and any other vocabulary injunctions that the human mind can concoct from its linguistic faculties. Red Bloods are propounders of a decadent system. A system that perceives itself alone in full pleasurable joy and considers the sum to to be greater than the parts. It fails to see that sum has the power to reduce the very parts that constitute it to such a deplorable level that its own value at the end falls down because of its disregard to those parts that conceive it.

My journey was to explore my small part in the entire masquerade of life after creation. I had to find my individual meaning amidst the crowd. Certainly there could be order amidst this chaos.

The Oyster’s Dream

I was riding a ship by the sea,
A sea with no ends even after I made a million pleas.

I knew that this ride was an endless one,
Since the language I spoke was understood by none.

When suddenly one day when I thought I had dreamed,
When suddenly an oyster shook and screamed.

And there from the gloomy darkness of the sea,
I understood for sure that the heavens had heard my plea.

The oyster broke and out came a girl,
Calling herself by the name of ______.

Smiling and simple by love she swore,
Cooling the heat of my burning stove.

Riding the chariot of happiness into my heart,
She didn’t know the end but always knew the start.

Epitome of patience and modesty she screamed,
Without saying a word in my mutant dreams.

Hundreds and thousands I met in this world; that is old,
Yet never saw an oyster made of gold.

She had the vison to touch the sky,
Yet the horizon rose every time that she would fly.

Her belief in Karma made her stand,
Everytime she slipped in the drowning sand.

Resolute and determined with every slip,
Thirsty for the nectar of knowledge even in the confines of the ship.

Her words of silence mean always more,
That there are infinite toys in the nature’s store.

Principles and values were the will of God she said,
In her I saw my God instead.

How did I not believe in God I persist,
When people like her continue to exist.

Illuminating the dark shore she came,
Putting even the brightest stars to shame.

I didn’t want her to keep her pure feet on the shore,
For I was afraid of what the land had in store.

“With my hope and audacity” she said,
I will make this land look like the sea instead.

For goodness was her message as the word of God,
Not to be hidden from the worldly sword.

Money is not the only thing in life,
For all of us, on success who strive.

I request her God, “why can’t there be some more,
Speaking this language beside the shore.”

I await my answer from the good old lord,
What suddenly scares me is her time to get back on board.

I realise in my folly that time is not divine,
That there can be only one whom I can call as mine.

When suddenly the Tao tells me you know,
That the answer to this is inside my flow.

Do what you want; get what you get,
Dont ask me, but ask her hand instead.

I awoke on the ship beside a stream,
Awaiting the answer from “MY OYSTER’S DREAM.”


Yours Truly,
NAME: The Jilted Lover
SIGN: The Woman of my Dreams
DATE: 4TH September 2009, Friday 6:00pm

My Dream Chronicles- The Window To My Dreams

Me,Myself And I:The Destiny To My Dreams

All was serene, all was calm and all was tranquil. When suddenly the earth shook with all its vigorous glory. The sky gleamed with all its mighty effort adorning the earth with the fullness of its existence. “I AM THE KING, THE WORLD MY ETERNAL PLAYGROUND AND ITS PEOPLE MY OBEDIENT SUBJECTS”. I saw Me, Myself and I in this conundrum trying to solve the puzzle of life and the purpose of its receipt by the creator amidst the pandemonium in the universe.



I couldn’t picture my image properly. It seemed hazy and blurred. But I could see the dream as if the vision were through the eyes of reality. Governed as I was by my instincts, passions and desires that churned in the ocean of existence, I was looking for a hope. I saw a chariot. A chariot which promised its master unfulfilled glory, fame and peaks that were just waiting to be conquered. As I moved the reigns of this chariot the horse of emotions guided me on my way with the wheels of ethics gliding in sync. In this glory though, I never failed to realise the earth from which I had emanated and the greatness of the creator whose existence I thought I would justify.


On my way I had a thirst that I found tough to quench. The thirst for knowledge it was and alas! It was a thirst that never disappeared. The more I consumed the more I needed to be consumed by the ignorance of the things around me. Amidst all this I moved on to ask the purpose of my life, the meaning of my existence and the aim of my being. The soul I thought would have the answer. But it didn’t. I continued without an end for my journey.


What I needed was ambition I thought. I formed one. I will scale that peak of fame I said. I saw the chariot like Alexander had seen his stallion. I knew not what I would see in the realms of reality that were to unfold in front of me. Ride it, I thought and ride I did. I reached the top of the topmost peak, scaled the top of the topmost heights, touched the top of the topmost fame yet I could see that the horizon kept shifting up with each upward movement. The sky looked further out of reach with every step.


Leadership I thought was the answer of my search. I went further into the dungeons of danger beneath a castle far away, only to find a mighty sword as an answer to my prayers. I wielded my sword of leadership in front of the countless tiny subjects whom I couldn’t make out with all the vision in my eyes. The higher I wielded the sword the smaller they became and more difficult it was for me to reach out to each one of them. I needed them all I said. I will win them all I thought. I will have them all I perceived and I DID. I took the sword and passed it to each one of those in the crowd to hold, for each one of them to feel, for each one of them to believe. Believe they did. I beamed. I had won them all and with that, the glory of leadership I had craved for. I ordered to get my sword back. I had surmounted another one of those tasks that my maker had destined for me to reach. Yet I felt there being a surge of not being appreciated, not feeling enough, not feeling fulfilled. Disgust is all I knew and disgust is all I got from all those who had just cheered some moments ago in the song of my glory.



Love I thought. Love would, I guess do it for me. I moved on the chariot like no rider before me had in the existence of this world searching for that one thing called love. A saint met me in my way. I asked him “Your holiness what makes you come by this way, wasn’t love to be found beyond this path”. ‘Your path is the one that you form for the sustenance of your existence’ he said and disappeared. “What was that” I wondered? A dream within a dream shouted my horse. I said yes I am going fine. I fed him with all the grass that could be consumed. Was this love enough, probably not I exclaimed. I saw a woman move. Chafing through the grass in the sunshine. Wearing a hood which hid her face but yet illuminated her skin. Bringing with it the light that was enough to illuminate the universe. I tried hard to see who she was but couldn’t make out the face. Speak will you I asked. Speak she did. Reach inside of yourself, reach your inner voice, reach your conscience and you will get thy peace and on reaching thy peace you will fulfil thy makers destiny.


Ride with me on my back I asked her for I don’t know where the road ahead inside my mind would take me. Ride I won’t she said because you wouldn’t need me in the place that you are bound for because I am just a small manifestation of the infinite love that exists within you. See it and you will know where to find me in my finest form.


I got down from my horse (resembling a broken gladiator). I put down the sword of my pride to the ground. I patted the back of my horse and he ran miles towards his own freedom. “Oh dear mind of mine, do open your arms for me to hold, your body for me to hug and your shoulder for me to cry. For I seek for peace and I need to find him within thee”.


Open I said, Open it did. Open was the gate of heaven inside my subconscious mind. I had reached the peace I sought for. The thirst for which I had a want for. The greatness I had claimed for. The ambition I had dreamed for and the love that I had hoped for. IT WAS ALL THERE, RIGHT THERE INSIDE MY MIND.



Yours Truly,
NAME: Me, Myself and I
SIGN: The Man Who Was King
Date: Some dreamy night long long ago that I fail to remember