Ramifications of a Confused Mind and a Restless Soul
Shruti, the editor calls. And on a platter I’m handed a legit excuse for the unfettered regurgitation of my overstuffed brain. Disturbing unconnected thoughts play havoc, strange inexplicable fear of attending a relative’s wedding cripple me, brilliant infant ideas strangled even before they breathe their first, blurs of beautiful nameless faces try desperately to become people I know, ridiculous figures and dates wait to be crossed checked with my secretary, lists of vegetables to order for my detox juice slosh around my jammed mind, fragments of lines from my last film refuse to exit my memory, or is it a play? Or the audition with Peter Kominsky (who by the way is the culprit of the ensuing chaos in my head)? Or are they dialogues from a film I saw at the picture house in Soho? And I run and run on the treadmill hoping to sweat it all away. Praying for a clear mind. A blankness of thoughts. 9 to 10 Tai chi practice. Thrice a week capoeira. Friday eve Craniosacral balancing session. And of course the continuous yoga, meditation, candida diet. Oh and not to forget the Bach flower remedy, 5 drops 5 times a day. A full on ‘alternative cures’ junkie. Curing what? Don’t you get it yet, that’s the point. Don’t know. Sorry. Am I going too fast? Maybe I’m jumping ahead. I’ll rewind to fill you in.
Last week I lose my POJO. Yes my POJO. My purpose and my Mojo all at once. Imagine. My raison d’être all gone. And horror of horrors at the same time the ability or more the desire to make the boys, and some of the girls, go jelly in the knees (and above) just by the mere nearness of me gone too. Shocking! Where did it all begin? It casually creeps up on me while I’m seated in the second row amidst bollywood royalty at a private screening room watching what is destined to become a massive hit. And I don’t get it. The film, the emotion, the choices, the pitch. Any of it. And I don’t, for the first time ever, want any part of it. It’s liberating beyond belief. Metaphoric chains choking me cinematically fly away in slow motion. The alien that rears her unbearable weak diplomatic fake~ laughter head impersonating the quirky cocky me at such filmy occasions can now be burnt buried bulldozed into the earth. For a brief moment a barrage of joy floods my newly reclaimed heart. And then cold blue panic. If this is not the purpose, not the dream I’m dreaming then… Then everything leading to this point has been a sheer waste. A dull sorrow engulfs my being and paralyses me. I no longer have purpose. At least temporarily. Peter Kominsky it is all your fault. Had you not tracked me and asked me to read for you and had I not found the process most thrilling and had the hour I spent with you not satisfied the actress in me more than I have been in a year I would still be happily running behind the things I don’t want. Unmindful of the world of possibilities that could rock my world and complete my essence. So there you have it~ the brief history of part uno of the loss of my beloved POJO.
Part duos cannot be pinpointed to an exact date or time. The discovery of it or the loss of it to be more precise, was a lot less specific. Now, in this gelato crazed city of Bombay I claim like a majority of us Bandra bumpkins to be single and happy. Lies. Single, yes. Happy, no not entirely. But at least I seem to have given up the ultimately futile search for a soul mate. I mean answer me this. How can someone be your soul mate and you not theirs? Is it just that they’ve forgotten the past life you’ve shared blissfully together and you still remember with a vengeance? So should you take great pains to jog their memory into uncontrollably loving you? Is it not true that men, for reasons be known only to themselves, have long abandoned the art of wooing? And I, I’m sorry to admit, was born to be a wooee not a woer. It does not agree with my digestion. So what option do I have left? To do the supposedly cool thing and walk away and go back to googling every cute single guy I meet in the hope that the computer search may prove we’re so meant to be? Don’t you dare judge me or mock me. This after all is the hard to come by soul mate I’m talking about not some random punter. Besides you cant slay me for being a google addict. I’m not the only one. Meet a rather obese director who refuses to look up at me from his googling habit in spite of having called me all the way to his office. Continues to address me but does not look at me. No not shy. Power playing. Establishing higher status, where he doesn’t deem it necessary to pay me more than exactly one percent of his attention. I remain unfazed. Too busy observing him and making mental notes to store in my acting tool kit to pull out on demand when playing a power crazed arrogant but deep down insecure character. Not that I need much ammunition to play an arrogant but deep down insecure person. More and more find myself hiding my inherent insecurity behind arrogance. It was not always so. The arrogance at 16 was not a façade. It was plain simple confidence. I was cock sure, secure and yes god damn arrogant. The invincibility of youth running through my red hot veins. No insecurities no doubts no reality checks no overrated truths plaguing that uncluttered determined mind. Mojo at its full power. A people magnet. An irresistible ball of energy. So why now this restlessness of my dissatisfied soul? What is this silly detour on my way to my destination? And what by the way is my destination any more any way? And does it even matter?
Somewhere a little glimmer that all will indeed be well. I may not be channel [V]’s chosen one this month but I certainly am God’s chosen child for life. And my POJO shall be returned to me when I’m good and ready for it.