Book 1 : The Technicolor Man : One

—In the grooves and between the trees of a village there are families residing—through the goat paths, the straws, and the leaves in their opulently air-ee-ated hole-some houses—intertwined.

 

—They meet. They cheer. They greet. In the morning they meet, cheer, and greet. Through the day they work, eat, produce, and sing. They do it so that the minds of the intricate world can survive with their intricacies. Their sweat is sowed and reaped through the mingling evaporating riot of seasons. This is the village. Cold, warm and green. Here is the house—seasoned by the lack of riches—of the family.

 

The sun came up early today, a little too early. Chintu could have used a couple of hours more of sleep. His four feet small fragile body could use it. Only if the fear of ‘Master Ji’ would not have been dancing the Dionysian dance in his drowsy heart. Did Eklavya ever fear Drona? So beautiful and complicated in mythology: heartless beasts glorified as gods.

 

His eyes were bulging when he opened them to the strange intensity of the morning sun. It shouldn’t have been this bright, not at this hour or may be the anticipated hour was wrong. The shadow of the tree outside was growing smaller and moving away from the house. The voluptuous tree called to its shadow—stop o’ dear one: but who can stop the sun?

 

The clear blue hue from Vincent’s pallet and white floating vapor packets of dry rain that shall never fall crowded the sky in English taste. Pervert and hypocritical. Sad and tyrannical. Vast in the name of the powerful Queen who has sent her messengers to culture the land of the uncultured. Opium—the fog of space; floating mass of freedom. Reliever of age, bringer of youth and glory and timelessness. Thy wars are infatigueable. Come colonization build your columns of opium. There was a feeling of heat; sort of a calling, to make anticipation of anticipation possible, a sort of an example before the exercise, just enough to make the idea clear. 

 

Chintu was late.

 

—A young bullet shot in the house and bounced clinging and clanging.

 

Geeta opened her shocked; brown and mild eyes, arose, and rushed outside. All in the rush of an instant. The day had dawned, and loitered ahead, leaving the walls without shadows in the wrinkles that crept from one side of the room to another. There were dark lines though. Dark lines: cracks. There was not even a reminiscence of a shadow.

 

Chintu was definitely late.

 

It hurt Geeta every time she thought of Chintu being late for school. It would have been all right if it was only about missing a subject or two. But today, Chintu would come back at least an inch swollen throughout. An inch.

 

—It is through fear that the children of the deprived are bred. They are powerless; their fathers helplessly father them. Crying fathers of dead children. The rich can dispose off the teacher himself; throw him out, like a purpose solved condom. But the poor? They pay the price of being what they are—poor. Forgive the wrong, for there will be a time when you shall have your moment. So says the almighty. So says them. Are you sure that there is a kingdom? Another kingdom? Will we have to tolerate god again?

 

—The master went through the procedure in his youth, and repeats the actions he had once thoroughly despised. :. We become the image we most hate.

 

Tanned brown, wearing blue shorts and a starched yellow shirt that used to be white when it had been bought, Chintu rushes through the door thinking of food. He resembles a storm. Fast, ragged and furious. His legs race the ground with uncertain confidence: of course that’s a form of confidence, but it is uncertain. Two short poles evenly divided in the middle. His upper torso is a little longer then it should be. But that decisively adds to the beauty of his fragile body. His face is brown and warm. A homely nose, not too short, but pointed. A smooth face. It reminds of a Greek sea if one was to think too hard. Otherwise; it’s just a face. Blah Blah Blah.

 

He has missed his breakfast again. Somehow he never got his head around the idea of missing his meals. He loves to eat, just anything. But food is a scarcity for the village, and a liability for the rich. What you sow and reap is not what you eat!

 

—Where grains grow in the fertile land

And tilled by those fruitful hands,

There lavishes famine,

And there lie graves,

Of our submitting prey.

 

His feet ride him along the narrow green path, cow dung cakes cover the bushes beside him like Christmas tree settings, and the dilapidated walls of tattered and weather-torn houses that pass by every now and then and coil into some corner of the memory becoming the obvious (we ignore the obvious, take it for granted), and the salty smell of urine rise to greet his steps. His rushing feet and his desultory breath bathe in the senses of the village. Pure nature—welcome unhurt. The trees awaken to his heaving, as he storms through the path. A breeze comes from behind him, gently helping him to carry on, putting in some effort to help him rush. Just a gentle effort, a lulled push by nature’s arm.

 

—Let me carry you

Oh child!

Let me help your feet

To rush through your innocence

Towards the world

And worldly men.

 

He emits an odor, the odor of his soul, his sweat. Sweat soaked shirt. The odor of his identity. The smell of the innocent rose. Gardener comes and plucks it to make beautiful bunches. Each sells for Rs.10. A bunch of 10 is equal to equal to 10 into 10 is equal to 100. Rich gardener earns of someone else’s soul.

 

—Dear Rose,

Who steals your smell your soul? What do you earn by your essence? Do bees pay you? Does the gardener share his share?

 

Regards

Mr. El-O-En-Dee-O-En London!

 

Reply

Dear Mr. El-O-En-Dee-O-En London,   

I am glad for your concern. The bees repay me by their homage, a certain share of their love of their love for the love of my existence. They love me because I complete them. The gardener steals from me my soul. He does not drink of my love, he steals it. He does not ask of it, or ever thank me for it. He rips it from me. He Causes My Death. Curse the Apple. In his sycophantic hallucinations (the idea that sits amongst his thoughts that I am his creation), he conspires the genocide of my essence. I have been chained to his slavery, his boring grave will that forever takes from my smell the essence of happiness. That takes from me my will to live, to feel joy. He shares with me only his curse, my death, his revenge.

 

Regards

Miss. Rose

 

A broken creaking gate holds the school premises to its heart. Swinging gaily, lazily, beside a stooping clock of wood. Naughty girl with her hurried smile. She does not understand what she calls for. Thirty years ago when Master Ji had been a freshly appointed teacher to this school it had been conjoined to the wall under his and his student’s guidance. There had been a ceremony; a marigold garland had been put on the gate for months. It had been a subject of great pride for all concerned directly or indirectly with the school or the village. Gates, and barriers: we take pride in them; separatists.

 

But both Master Ji and the gate had withered with time. Both had learned to creak and crow, both sulked with age and made profane gestures in sound. Master Ji had lost his temper; he had lost his life; he had lost his dream; to the unnerving antics of the village. Sometimes giving up is considered virtuous. Patrons of boredom—heralds of death. If you let your dreams die, what dream can you nurture in minds that truly deserve a dream. Compromise, animals, compromise.   

 

Chintu entered the cold building that had its walls coming off and reeked of a collective noise that penetrated the mind and never left. Its paint had rotten. It rolled out an aura of a dead corpse, with a distinct source of energy. It struck with shock. But the shock was of that which leaves us unnerved. Can the house of knowledge—the house of wisdom—resemble the house of doom? Show me the kingdom! And I will show you a lie.

 

—We create images of our wisdom: not in our wisdom: with conviction. The house of knowledge resides in a word, in a mind, not in a wall.

 

—Break down the castle of the foretold

We are the children of a new breeze

Forget us if we don’t except what you preach

We shall learn from the naked trees.

 

Panting and rushing he reached the door of his nightmare, and stood silently. He did not know how to react. All eyes turned to him, a gesture of sympathy with the knowledge of the future.  

 

Calm and cruel Master Ji threw the chalk from his hand and raised his voice as if to mock the idea of future itself (the profanity of his words have been omitted here)—So here is you, my lad. Good. Very good!

 

Trembling emotions take siege. Chintu moaned a mute—Yes, Master Ji. The words came out like puberty. Fresh and unheard. You could not squeeze the untold from lime; they configure only juice.

 

Achaaa! Come late and no reply, Excuse you can give at least. But no! I thinks you need a lesson, but a different lesson, Smiled Master Ji. Red rotten teeth.

 

He rushes to his prey. His vengeance restored. Two frightened eyes catch the million shadows on the ceiling. Cow eyes. Cub eyes. Floating in the space with shooting stars. All sorts of spiders and webs. Instructors of Biology. Tangled and prostrate—beaten blue, we live as long as a sparkling dew. Sudden change of scene, his eyes see the room. There are shocking changes. Rapid changes in shape, fast moving objects, from one corner of the eye to the other. Comets rushing towards other orbits. One of these might have caused the end of Dinosaurs before the beginning of time. Thus bringing boredom. Us. Nothing is constant. Light. Dark. Pain. There is a pleasure in pain. A very subtle pleasure, only for those who understand.

 

That will teach you not to come late now—says a bulging voice from a bulging stomach. Give it horns. Greet the lord of darkness. But: he is innocent. He knows not what he does. The devil was not wrong in what he did. The problem was he was too right. And that’s always wrong.

 

—Let’s play a subtle game

One where you, and I can blame

One where I, and you can blame

Let’s play a subtle game

 

Chintu went over to his desk. And smoothened himself on a seat. Yet again wood calls. Soft and motherly. Scroooaap. What was he teaching before I entered? Has he forgotten? What book do I bring out? Or do I just shut my bag again? Who wrote history? Do we all have a hand?  

 

—Sit yourself dear friend

Nature will guide you till the end.

 

—History swims like waves, crashes upon rocks. Here gems are made. Gems are made. Are made. Made. Fade. Made. Fade. Fake. Made. Fake.

Doors To The Middle

The neighbors complained all the time, sulking while they gossiped over their timeless tea. Although there had been no complain about his behavior—a sweet helpful lad, busy in his own world, with his tulip dreams—they thoroughly despised the exercise of his art of singing. Helpless as they were, they procured solutions (amongst themselves), solved the problem (over tea or dinner), and went off to sleep only to wake up again to his voice, which even I with the fear of nature’s wrath shall not dare to compare to a nightingale’s. Nonetheless he had been duly notified quite a number of times about his priceless voice, priceless of course in the ironic sense of the word. But. Nothing could stop or dissuade him from whimpering those otherwise delightful songs in his untamed and barbaric (in context to the evolution of the art of singing) voice. He moaned and cried through day and night. Through his waking hours leaving behind a trail of terror so unfortunate that those who heard his voice nearly lost their sanity. They roamed the dark labyrinths of thoughts where lurked vicious poisonous snakes, whispering soft painless misery in their ears. The neighbors had just fallen short of calling the police, though not much could be achieved by those means as well. The streets themselves were left abandoned through these opera-tic experiments. And so he sang, and sang without restraint, breaking glasses and crumbling metal. He sang as he bathed under the warm motherly rain of shower in his New York apartment. Today was one of those special days when his adrenalin was pumped beyond the danger mark, exceeding way beyond the flood mark, and sweet ancient Nile threatened all that stood in its way—figuratively. Such immense were the effects of this distortion that all of things stood confused. Adults became children, children were still in their wombs, gossiping women with their imaginary wombs chatted while they baked in the oven, the old turned into albatrosses, the television was hungry, everything, in short, had lost its natural order. And through this universal turmoil, unconcerned, he turned of the shower and gladly stood in front of the mirror. Quite at last. Evaluating his features as he stood, anointing a body lotion, while his throat gunned its engine again and soared the rather higher realms of musical foundations. The glass was shaking. With the help of ‘N’ number of movements of precision, attained by years of practice he comber his hair and wore his favorite perfume. Satisfied. He draped his towel around his waist and opened the door.

As she emerged from the bathroom, after her disinterested bath, her voice rang out to her neighbors. And at that instant and for all moments to follow all was lost. Enchanted. Beauty in its naked form: witch with her broom: she with her voice: she conquered far more easily then Alexander. The effects of her singing had been so adverse that her landlady in all profundity had excused her the tiresome ordeal of paying the monthly rent for her beautiful Lokhandwala apartment. Though when questioned, the landlady, in all honesty claimed that the rent was paid duly, only not in cash but in kind. A payment she made every morning without any qualms. She sang. And this day she sang her most melodious while she put on her favorite set of lingerie. Cotton, black. Not branded, merely comfortable, sort of the ones that are put in baskets and are forever on sale in big shopping malls. Today she wished to be comfortable, to be able to be completely herself, to be free. In her tune, in her song, flowing softly she puts on her underwear. Slowly as she raises her underwear some of the orphan lost drops get wiped; her Aphrodite’s buttocks and the shimmering pubic hair get devoured by its hunger. The brassier softly hugs her full breasts as she puts on her superman t-shirt. She ties a broad brown leather strap around her waist; its two suspenders carrying heavy black boxes go from over her breasts and hold on at her back. Already her sweat has wet her back. She wears the black Reebok sports jacket she had bought last winter. Last: her hippie blue jeans effortlessly pull over her smooth plump legs and send the underwear in shadows. Today is special. The neighbors know it, for her voice is far more serene. She can’t wait to reach the restaurant. Her heart skips and dances to the modulations of her tongue, while her mind marvels at the beauty of love, at its ability to heighten the senses. How it prolongs every moment and makes them precious and visible. How it justifies the birth of a person; makes hardships worth bearing. How while looking in that one face all the truth of the heart automatically pours out. Nothing remains but a certain gladness far more superior then the beauty of visibility. And with these thoughts she opens the door of her house.

As his face is projected in the stairway, all eyes turn to him. Angry for his song, and eager for his departure. Requests have been postponed. But he is too ecstatic to notice. The Rajah today, for one precious day in the great continuum of time forgets his Prajah. He is too happy to care for such trivialities as anger. As his first step touches the embossed green carpet of the stairs a deadly poisonous marksman’s arrow pierces his ears. His brain storms with thoughts, thoughts that have roots in the comment, but have branched out to a different school of thought, a different debate, an ancient philosophy, one that is dead. Why can’t a person be happy as soon as he sees another happy person? Shouldn’t there be some trigger, automatic, that unleashes a chain reaction of this sort of happiness? What must he say as he enters? Now the diversion from the mundane to more serious matters. To the present. To important things. Things of love. Just a hello? NO! Something more. Something more especial. Something… Could he just say the word ‘something’ he humors with himself. Drift again. The young river of love carrying its rapid thoughts waits for no answers, no rationalization. The young and eager river bumps from one thought to another, that is the adventure of a new found love, the excitement of it. Love is like a young river up in the mountains, full of white water rapids. It topples boats only to excite those sitting inside them. Love is the finest adventure sport. He calculates the measure of her happiness. The breadth of her smile. All the trivial imaginations of a young immaculate heart. How beautiful she must be today? Is he late? Checking the time he opens the door to the street.

People carrying thousand year old genetically decomposed stench of sweat emerge in front her as she emerges in front of them. They more on. So many people perspiring so many thoughts. So many in love. Two schoolgirls pass her giggling away to Narnia, duly humored by her jacket. Their day is made. They shall walk all the way home discussing her, will be forced to eat some form of lunch that they don’t wish to eat, and then use the magical device called telephone to continue the thread of discussion until in the evening their mother shall reprimand them for a lengthy telephone bill. Cursing under their breaths they shall promise to continue over the topic the next day, while they hang up only to forget about it through their wet dreams. She is ignorant to such giggles, all that interests her is the meaning of love. The feeling of love. The lightness that it produces in the bones and muscles. The presence of reason, responsibility and worth that it brings. The mature love. The love of the soul, one that gives not takes, without any expectations. One that creates martyrs and militants, without two thoughts about it. She hums as she moves on. Rich desperate boys in elongated cars visually fuck her through their expensive glasses. They will dream of her tonight. Of her round buttocks. But she is oblivious to reality. There is only one thing that is stirring her heart and mind; purpose; and the purpose is love. She passes an old couple, standing hand in hand, waiting for a taxi and she wonders how she even walk hand in hand with her lover, how even in the other purer world she shall support her lover. Her pace becomes slower as she nears her destination. She wants to be ready. She fixes her hair with a wave of the hand, pulls her jacket properly, and checks her shoes. Her back is straight. A delivery boy exits the restaurant and leaves the door open for her. She enters with her curious eyes.

He enters with his curious eyes.

Casually she looks around the crowd. He spots her and rushes to her. There are children in her way. She has to go to the other end for her love. Toward the middle. He almost runs inside the murmuring restaurant, runs to keep pace with his heart. She spots him through the crowd. Her lover. He reaches her with his gloves in his hand, grabs her in his ecstasy, picks her up, and swoom she goes with a smile. His nirvana attained. His heaven reached. She reaches the middle where her lover stands, invisible to all other eyes, and hugs herself. Hugs herself tight. Tears in her eyes, she is happy. Her salvation restrained. Just one more touch. She pushes harder against herself. Scared stares reach her. He sits across from her, without leaving her eyes. She opens her eyes and it devours everything. Soft fleshy children fly away from her. The tables rip. Rubies sparkle throughout the restaurant, on white washed walls. Flames erupt from stomachs. Screams from throats. Her salvation attained. Her Kashmir, her love, her peace—attained. She reaches across the table and kisses him. His Kashmir, his love, his peace—attained.

Purple Haze

"Fingers flush in blood red,

Brain puddle from his head,

Groans while finger chained,

Spiting the world changed,

While they stand and watch, 

His face a notch,

Amused their lips

Casually

Smile...

Smile..."

- Yuvraj

* Sketch - Discard

Coloring - Yuvraj

Blue Finger Murder

"You cannot quit me so quickly. 

There's no hope in you for me? 

No corner you could squeeze me? 

But I've got all the time for you..."

*The Sketch was made by Kahnehteh, and I merely worked on the refining and color. I wanted to use more color, and make it a bit photoreal sorts, but upon trying I realized that with the emotional-psychological effect the sketch has, Just drops would fit in better.  

Big Boss And the Chamber of Boredom

Curtains Rise 

There is a table in the middle of the room, on the left is the boys room, and on the right the girls’. There is a door in the middle of the wall, between the two rooms, that leads to the chamber of conversation with the big boss. The walls are vividly painted, and there are cameras (wherever you think fit to put them) to capture the activities of the room. The kitchen is where the audience will be sitting so some of the characters shall enter through the left-end of the stage/scene. You can also put some vases and couple of other things as you might think would suit the scene.

 

Open scene

 

Open the door of the chamber of Conversation with Big Boss. Enter Squirrel on stage in a very flashy manner as if to woo the world. With swaying hips and all that. She is definitely beautiful and all, but a little light in the head (which we shall see during the show). Whistles emphasize her entry.

 

Squirrel           Now, now…I knew you all would just run away as soon as you saw me go in…Why?

Giraffe            Because, besides that gorgeous fur you carry, some inner light would not burn them any lesser then the emptiness already does. Aind…because, the Monkey does not care…Aind…because the Lion is an utter fool, making decisions influenced by the Snake…Aind…because the Snake is cunning (which you will not believe), charming (which you will believe) and lazy (as you can see)…Aind…Because…the rabbit must be taking bath or she would be here…which, sorry as it might be, leaves me here, aind for you to judge. (He says this in a very matter-of-fact manner, he does not intend to hurt her, instead whishes well for her) (Goes and starts to help her carry the gifts that she has to bring out of the room, without even having her asked for it)

Squirrel           So! Being as weak as I am, am I not entitled to even such small requests as these? To carry some gifts for me? Isn’t it your duty to help me? Why would anyone refuse? (She asks most innocently/you have to keep in mind while you speak her dialogues that she is dumb/innocent not cruel/dark)

 

Right when she asks this question, the Lion and Snake come out of the room singing gaily in each other arms.

 

Snake              (Changes the lyric of the song he was singing and stars to sing in the same tune the given lyric)

O’ that wouldn’t be wrong at all,

Fair maiden I was waiting for the call,

But I believe it never came,

The Giraffe is just acting Lame.

(And seeing that the giraffe has already kept everything on the table)

Come now may I help my dame?

With these colorful gifts and games?  

Lion                 (Intrudes here in the same tune, if possible/you could give him a funny sort of a voice)

A very merry Christmas.

A very merry Christmas.

Ha-haa!

Ha-haa!

Ha-haa!

(Takes the biggest gift from the table and starts to open it)

 

He has only half opened it when the squirrel starts to weep. The snake slowly approaches her. The lion is dumb struck (stiff). The giraffe casually goes toward the kitchen. Upon hearing the sound of the weeping the rabbit and monkey appear from their respective rooms. The rabbit goes straight to the squirrel but the monkey stays at the door.

 

Monkey          (To the Snake, in a very harsh and dictatorial voice) Was it your doing?

Rabbit             (The rabbit is trying to calm the squirrel down) Nothing doing. (Without even looking up)(This should come just after the question so that it should appear that the rabbit squirrel conversation and the monkey snake conversation appear at the same time)

Lion                 (Suddenly in a blaming scared voice) Yes! it was him!

Squirrel           Yes it was him. (Still crying but pointing toward the Lion instead)

Lion                 He was…(The lion was about to put all the blame on the Snake but stops short. He does not know what struck him. And it should be evident from the voice.) What...What have I done?

Giraffe            (Coming back from the kitchen and casually answers as if the question was put to him/he is completely calm, in fact there is a certain amount of humor that he finds in the whole episode) You took the biggest gift. (Smiling)

 

All turn toward the Lion. The squirrel slaps the Lion and runs toward her room. The Rabbit slaps him again and rushes behind the squirrel. The snake goes to the door of the girl’s room, slowly walks up to the lion and slaps him again and goes into his room. The monkey, who was till now standing at the door, slaps the Lion from behind and then also moves to his room. The lion is silently sobbing. The giraffe sits at the table and starts to eat the food. The clock strikes twelve.

 

Giraffe            Merry Christmas. (To the Lion) (Smiling and eating)

 

The Lion bangs his feet and walks into the room.

There is a sound of another slap. And then a voice.

 

Snake              Merry Christmas my squirrel!

 

After some time.

 

Squirrel           (Still weeping) Merry Christmas to you too. (A bit more relaxed though)

 

Sound of another slap. And then another voice.

 

Monkey          Merry Christmas.

 

After some time.

 

Rabbit             Merry Christmas. (In a very shy sort of a voice. You could give a certain type of giggle to emphasize that.)

 

The lion starts to weep even harder, and rushes outside again. Snatches the food kept in front of the giraffe.

 

Lion                 Why should you get all of that? (A mix of anger and sadness)

Giraffe            I won’t.

Lion                 But you have already finished it.

Giraffe            I haven’t.

 

The Monkey coming outside.

 

Monkey          Hey Lion? You hungry?

Lion                 Yes. Sort of. (Calming down)

Monkey          Then why don’t you grab some food instead?

Lion                 What?

Monkey          Don’t eat our heads!

 

The rabbit coming out.

 

Rabbit             Oh don’t bother him so much. (Talking to the Lion now) They had planned this surprise for you. Just to make you feel happier. You can have that gift. It’s yours anyway.

Giraffe            And don’t you feel really happy right now? (He says in such a way that it’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic)

Lion                 What’s that supposed to mean?

Giraffe            It means that you have been fooled and beaten and fooled again.

 

Squirrel coming out.

 

Squirrel           Mr. Giraffe (In a very slow and sarcastic tone). Now look how you have hurt him. We merely were playing along. Isn’t it Christmas? What’s wrong if we had some fun?

 

Snake coming out. All of them are now sitting at the table. The Monkey and the Rabbit facing each other. And as the snake comes out even he sits goes and takes a seat.

 

Snake              In your sweetness and innocence, my Squirrel, you are always so right. You would anyways never want to hurt anyone. (The Squirrel nods an affirmative) (The Snake speaking to the Monkey) So what’s the game now?

Giraffe            Why?...Are you tired of playing ‘slapping the lion’?

Monkey          Knock it off Giraffe you are annoying me now. Lets just finish our dinner and then we can go off to sleep.

Rabbit and Squirrel (Simultaneously) We want to dance!

 

The Giraffe gets up and leaves for the kitchen. The Snake and Monkey start to clap and the Rabbit and Squirrel start to dance. The Giraffe brings all the food and puts it all on the table.

 

The Voice of Big Boss. All revelry stops.

 

Big Boss         Miss. Squirrel, I think I had asked you to give a message from my side today. But you seem to have completely forgotten.

Squirrel           (Trembling voice) Sorry big boss. It just slipped out of my mind. Actually, the snake, with his gentle words makes me forget all the important things.

Big Boss         Then I can tell you that you are free to celebrate this Christmas with you family. You are eliminated.

 

Sounds of gasps. All shocked.

 

Snake              (Sort getting excited and angry) But Big Boss you can’t!

Big Boss         You are also eliminated for having planned the joke on Mr. Lion. So you can celebrate the Christmas with your family as well.

 

The rabbit begins to cry, the Monkey is sitting quietly at the table without moving. The Snake and Squirrel move to their rooms. There is silence otherwise. And the curtain begins to fall. But then the giraffe starts to speak.

 

Giraffe            You have again been entertained for 10 minutes. You have seen a fight. A SURPRISE. You have seen tears. Heard sobs. Some Smart comments. A Song. Some music. There is a possibility that some of you even smiled at some of the jokes. On the contrary some might have asked themselves, why was I watching this for the last 10 minutes? Some might be feeling a sense of nostalgia. But I am only wondering one thing…

                        Why did they make it in the first place? Lakhs of money invested in such inane entertainment. Is this what you call entertainment? Is this how you want to be entertained? By watching catfights, thoroughly dumb conversations, stupid surprises, vain anger, and characterless characters. Is this how you wish to spend your lives? Witnessing and in fact glorifying the torture of entertainment, of the sad murder of knowledge and creativity, of the false hanging of the basic instinct of the need for beauty. Of everything that was considered beautiful…humane…Of that that was worth living for, which healed the mind and helped it grow, which pleased the eyes, and helped open the mind. But then it’s your choice, is this the stupidity you wish to see?

 

                        If it is! There you had it. Otherwise think about it.

                        Merry Christmas once again.

 

Closure.