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Usually, I am vastly ignorant on what matter to be delicately
touched and enthusiastically scratched and violently shaken to make
beautiful, time-passing, morning-evening anytime type quality
reading material, equally Nepali in a NY subway or in this unnamed
city or in Kathmandu, not very long, not very short type article for
your computer-screen reading pleasure. Celluloid ki Kasam, my
brothers and sisters, Mr. Suresh Dhital, Writer/Director will also
become an ink on paper artist, but right now, as you know, I am in
this unnamed Indian city, and to each of us our own struggle.
Brothers and sisters, sometimes your struggle is mine, sometimes my
struggle is your. “Jeevan ek Sangharsha ho!” Reminds of my
friends from school—one went west to Kathmandu, other went north
into the mountains. When Manav joins the Maoists, why shouldn’t
Jeevan join army? Then, Manav’s struggle is my struggle, but my
struggle is also Jeevan’s struggle. Like geometry in high school, my
dear friends—it is all commonsense. If each of our struggles is
every other person’s struggle too, why are Manav and Jeevan
struggling against each other? It is times like this, when this
untamed time and spaced-out space make very little or equal to no
sense that I find myself in the negative quadrants of life. Brothers
and sisters, if you notice, I have kept the mathematical imagery
alive.
You see—I am already aspiring writer in ink on paper. And thank you
for your many blessings, brothers and sisters. I know sometimes you
are thinking—what type is this fellow? Is this fellow for real or
for fake? Is this fellow having good time in unnamed Indian
city—aforementioned, if I may add? This fellow sounds sketchy—what
if my girlfriend/parent/supervisor find out I read column of this
fellow? What is this fellow talking about? But rest assured, and be
sure to rest assured, I am only here for your entertainment and
contentment, not vehement unsettlement with you. If I stop taking
about myself, brothers and sisters, I will sound a lot more
interesting. But you keep wondering and pondering, asking naughty
questions like—“is this guy really Writer/Director, or is he only
low level, black label tea-tray holding, folding-chair folding,
reflector flexing blue collar laborer in the fake-magic world of
flaking paints and badly made-up extras and fog machines and
stunt-men with steel shins?” Then, I am forced to repeat to you that
I am Mr. Suresh Dhital, Writer/Director. How can I stop talking
about myself or my part time occupation as substitute web master for
a fellow struggling artist’s cut and paste artistic portraits
website, if my brothers and sisters across the world refuse to trust
me?
Now, brothers and sisters, I think it is time for a poem about my
struggles in this unnamed city. My brothers and sisters, you don’t
know that I have the luxury of going on shoots with the team if
shoot is occurring inside India. One day, I was holding a reflector
and reflecting upon my life, but the reflector I was holding was
reflecting off the heroine and she had short stubbles in her armpit.
They were short and when she stretched herself over a motorcycle in
a song, where her character is saying “I will love you as much as
the space is sprawled over this beautiful and flower-full valley
surrounded by snowy peaks even though the untamed time will conspire
against me in form of angry father and rich jealous suitor,” the
tips of the stubble in her armpit glistened in the arc lights like
tiny drops of shine. Then I remembered a girl, from a long time ago
when I wasn’t even a struggling Writer/Director but only an occupant
of a room in Koteshwor, commuting locally on local bus to college
for a degree in communication or commerce. I will not say she loved
me, because she is now married and has two beautiful children, but
please to note that once I asked her if she would want to grow old
with me and play with out grandchildren. Then I had to compose a
poem to at once reflect my thoughts and what I was feeling, also
keeping in mind the fact that the poem had to talk about me being a
Writer/Director, and not Porter/Reflector as I may suggest. Thence
came this poem—
it is afternoon in Kathmandu
and i can see the sun on bare arms.
pale, friendly and warm--
like the luminosity of affection.
but before me
this show of snow and skin.
a scantily clad heroine,
of virtue, too--
how she straddles
a shiny, plastic and steel motorbike,
on that rock jutting over
a sheer blue drop.
my brothers and sisters,
as writer/director in struggle--
allow me to reflect
a knowledge of secret matter--
it is all glitter
in this unnamed city.
my eyes are eaten out
by the glare of the arc lights,
but there is no sun in sight.
Now, brothers and sisters, I have avoided talking about me by
talking about the heroine, and heroine in my life before I was
heartbroken by that heroine and turned to alcohol only to end up
turning to heroine and ending up ruining my life for good. After my
brief stint at the rehab, I joined film industry and decided to
carry one motto with me, and that is a miracle for me because I am a
thin man. My motto is very short—“Life is Struggle!” In
sentence before the last one, I made a joke, my jolly and roly-poly
brothers and sisters. It was also test of if you are Nepali or
foreign, or a foreign with Nepali knowledge.
One nice fact about love—you can find it so often and in so many
places. I am also adept at finding love in many places and shapes
and sizes and styles and speaking different languages. Of this
unnamed Indian city, despite her main profession as dancer and part
time profession which she keeps a secret from me but her pimp talks
to me about, Titli has been my enduring flame of love. She is not
tall, not fat, not dark, not smart. In fact, she has lovely legs,
which she must find very handy. Brothers and sisters, that was a
pun. If my name were Suresh Pun, I would make puns all the time, but
my name is Suresh Dhital, Writer/Director. But enough about me!
Before I say adieu, here’s a poem about Titli:
It was just one of
those nights.
Titli pouted at me and asked:
“Make a clever couplet.”
I replied:
“my intentions aren’t dishonorable,
but I don’t intend to uphold my honor.”
Her hand
offering me a colorful morsel
froze with distrust:
“Even I can tell,” she bobbed her head,
“it is neither clever,
nor is it a couplet!”
Now, my brothers and sisters, I will let you evaluate the value of
silence by disappearing with my voluble verbal profusion confusion.
But, I remain, reverently and regrettably, eternally gratefully
yours. |
