Love, See us Into a Hall of Mirrors
I have a piece in the Outlook's annual Bollywood special - which I'd love some feedback on. The theme this year is romance.
It's called Love, See Us Into a Hall of Mirrors
Writing in something like Outlook is a bit scary because you know anyone, anywhere in the country could read it. Or at least it is now - because I wrote a piece last year and at that time I didn't think too much about it. Only after it came out did I realise how many people read Outlook - I mean felt aware of it actually instead of in some abstract corner of my brain.
For a couple years I wrote a column for the Mumbai Mirror. Since those were my years of not taking the Times of India I never actually saw the column in print. As a result I wrote it with a peculiar sense of freedom - I had no sense of it being read by all and sundry and so, no fear of the inevitable shame and scorn that I otherwise live in constant dread of. Then I switched papers. Guess what I don't write anymore? Of course the nice girl whose horrible job it was to pester me for the column will laugh bitterly at this - all freelance writers are slackers trying to glorify their ineptitude and inconsideration she will say. They should try having a job or something, she will say. Maybe she's right. But then, who'd give me a job? And that depressing question should effectively keep me in a state of writer's block for another week. Ah well.
Here's last year's piece too, just to prove to her that I behave responsibly every now and then-the theme then was Stardom.
It's called Love, See Us Into a Hall of Mirrors
Writing in something like Outlook is a bit scary because you know anyone, anywhere in the country could read it. Or at least it is now - because I wrote a piece last year and at that time I didn't think too much about it. Only after it came out did I realise how many people read Outlook - I mean felt aware of it actually instead of in some abstract corner of my brain.
For a couple years I wrote a column for the Mumbai Mirror. Since those were my years of not taking the Times of India I never actually saw the column in print. As a result I wrote it with a peculiar sense of freedom - I had no sense of it being read by all and sundry and so, no fear of the inevitable shame and scorn that I otherwise live in constant dread of. Then I switched papers. Guess what I don't write anymore? Of course the nice girl whose horrible job it was to pester me for the column will laugh bitterly at this - all freelance writers are slackers trying to glorify their ineptitude and inconsideration she will say. They should try having a job or something, she will say. Maybe she's right. But then, who'd give me a job? And that depressing question should effectively keep me in a state of writer's block for another week. Ah well.
Here's last year's piece too, just to prove to her that I behave responsibly every now and then-the theme then was Stardom.
Comments
I'm wondering, though, what would explain comprehensively the blandness of cinema today (with exceptions, of course). All the bits don't add up. Do they?
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