All comedy is conflict…

ImageThey say analysing comedy is like dissecting a frog, you might learn a thing or two about its anatomy, but you’ll have to kills it first. Comedy writers often take the risk murdering humour in order to understand how it is created. Comedy is more simple and effortless to feel, unlike its twin brother tragedy. Crying is a task, and it takes effort to control your tears. We do not like wearing our sad faces around. In fact we put on a lot of make up to hide our gloominess and we tuck-in all our sorrows away from the world. We even accessorize with logic and practicality to distract others from looking through us. Tragedy is that matured adult that we’d like to avoid and Comedy is more like that lost innocent childhood, we’d all like to go back to.

We all understand the importance of a good plot, funny scenes, and witty dialogues but there are few other layers within comedy that one must look into. There are a few other rules that define good comedy – conflict and irony.

All comedy is conflict. Irony is a type of conflict; the real situation is conflicting from what it ought to be. The degree of conflict between characters, situations or sometimes even the audience (seen in stand-up comedies) can determine the degree of laughter from the audience. Now let’s look at some of my favourite sitcoms. You will be surprised to learn, it not just the witty one-liners but the chemistry between the characters that gets people cracking.

In Sienfield, Jerry and George Constanza’s constipated irritation with each other and the rest of the characters. You wouldn’t be surprised if the characters slapped each other very often. Each of the characters were loud, obnoxious and filled with buffoonery. But it simply wouldn’t have worked if George and Jerry got along without any friction. And same holds true for other characters as well. In most of the scenes it felt like one of them is ready to burst out any moment. Because of the conflicting situations and conversations a show about absolutely ‘nothing’ is one of the most hilarious shows of all time.  

On the side, we have yet another marvellous sitcom – Modern Family. It goes on one level higher. Apart from its cheeky fast paced humour here the characters cannot express themselves; they control their conflict because it’d hurt their spouse or family member’s emotions. The audience is fully aware of how annoyed Claire Dunphy is with her juvenile husband – Phil, but she controls herself from screaming out. Her silent gazes seem like she wants to breathe out fire on her husband. Well sometime she does burst out with anger but only when it’s too late. Similarly Jay finds his hot and spicy yet superstitions and loud wife Gloria extremely ridiculous and her son Manny is the oversensitive and over matured kid. The frustration of not being able to speak during the couch session gets you rolling in laughter.

The best example of a situational conflict is Arthur Fonzarelli from ‘Happy Days’. Apart being the epitome of coolness the Fonz could do the most unusual things at the snap of his fingers.  

The most conflicting character amongst the main cast creates the most amount of laughter. Take for example, Joey and Chandler in ‘Friends’. They stood out as the best comic pair in a group of six. And the most legend -wait for it- dary Barny Stinson; it wouldn’t have been the sheer laugh riot that it is now without Barney. Not because he is unusual but because he is the most unusual within the gang.

The most conflicting or ironic setting of a sitcom was found in MASH – a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital during the American-Korean war. Quick witty dialogues were delivered with a straight face while the surgeons are operating in a make shift hospital. The episodes were bleeding with sarcasms, dry or black comedy. The one-lines flew around faster than the torpedoes in a war. And Alan Alda was brilliant in his craft than a brain surgeon.

They say it takes about 26 facial muscles to smile – though this is debated a lot over the net, we’ll just stick with this number for now – it takes your whole body to laugh. Because if you are watching world class sitcom on TV or a funny movie you are bound to exercise your gut muscles, move your hand in around like the house been set on fire and roll over the floor like your spouse pushed you from the sofa for not doing the dishes, again.

But comedy writing is not easy. It does not come naturally as laughing on others. A comedy writer needs to first understand the tragedies of life and then seek laughter in it. Everyday he peeks into others life, to find laughter. He searches on the net, watches online videos, talks to random people just out of curiosity. But in the end the part which touches him the most, is his own reality and somehow he turns it around for the outside world to create some laugh worthy comedy.

Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot. Charlie Chaplin

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The Simpletons – a short story

20140111_153838On a cold winter afternoon, a group of snobbish, – drunk on their lethargy – hideously black buffaloes were crossing the path dug out between the rocky hills and the 15 story high-rise, which had just come up. The building was a work of beauty, equipped with luxurious amenities and was built to house those common people (aam aadmi) who after getting tired from the big city’s hustle bustle needed a small town tavern to rest, to get satiated on the unpolluted fresh air. The senior buffalo shrugged looking at the building watchmen; she didn’t have to look all the way up to see, just a side glance and she was convincingly ridiculed by humans. What do these weaklings understand about nature? The rest of the group nodded in affirmation ‘Yeah, what do they understand?’

The senior continued ‘They cut trees to build their houses, they cut mountains to build their roads, but the fact is they cannot do a thing with their bare hands, they need tools for every bit of work for them; to cook food, to construct, to walk. We on the other hand, live like one with nature, exactly how God made us, if we had those tools we could be much bigger and powerful then these humans. But we are wiser and we choose to remain humble within out limitations. Look at the these jokers coming towards us’

she pointed looking at a group of construction workers coming towards them, all of them armed with heavy construction tools. But the buffaloes didn’t flinch one bit. All of them spread like the mafia men, each marking their target and ready to take these men out. The men got worried and stood on their toes. They couldn’t understand the game strategy of these animals. One of them dropped a tool, they called it a gun but was in fact a smaller version of a sledgehammer. The smaller buffalo quickly seeking the opportunity moved one step ahead and seized the tool.

This one seemed inspired by David Beckham, she was too quick with her feet and before the men could realize tool was passed from the 1st buffalo to the 7th one, in quick passes – as if they were coached by the Barca coach. The final pass went to the senior player, who stood right in the centre, waiting to shoot the tool into the goal. She had the look of a captain, who had lost the last world cup four years back and this was the only opportunity toreclaim the lost glory. As she was about to kick, the men grew weary and ran for their lives, dropping all their tools. The buffaloes grunted in victory. Even the building watchmen ran inside and hid himself behind his booth. The buffaloes bellowed in laughter, leaving the tools behind and walked snobbishly straight in the middle of the under-construction road. At that moment a few rocks from the edge of the mountain began sliding through the mud and were landing on the road. The buffalo ran as fast as their heavy bodies could permit. The senior gnawing – ‘Damn you most strongest and monstrous Mountain’.

The Mountain looked down at the commotion and realised he was leaking from its edges, there was nothing he could do. The men had performed an amputation surgery around the edges to construct a road and left some live tissue lying around which leaked stones, pebbles and sometimes bigger rocks. But looking at the fat girls run like that, did give the Mountain an innocent chuckle. He knew he was the mightiest and the strongest of all the creations of God. If there was anybody stronger then him, he wasn’t simply aware, for he never went out of his ground and challenged a worthy opponent. He was too modest, and always said to the little ants who crawled on him and questioned him regularly ‘Dude, we being so tiny do so much work, build our houses, provide food to our siblings and children, why don’t you step out and do something’

The mountain replied ‘Like what? I don’t eat anything, I do not copulate and multiply. I am a simple being meant to be single on this planet from the beginning till the end. I have been waiting for the end for last 300 years but the earth seems get extensions every 100 years.

The ant answered ‘But these men keep killing your brothers and look they have already began killing you too, do something before they finish you.’

The mountain replied ‘ Oh life generally is meaningless and purposeless, let them do what they want. We simpletons try to define life’s meanings in words, expressions, emotions, logic and what not. The truth is life starts with Nothing and ends with Nothing. I don’t care one way or the other. I need the world to end, if these men folk kill me and my brothers and the rest of the species, they’d die sooner then they think’. Besides I am the biggest mountain in this region, even these fools would think 100 times before they decide to kill me.

The ant replied ‘Oh, yes you are the strongest and the mightiest of them all. Hail oh mountain, please keep our houses safe. Hail oh mountain’

The mountain wondered and his mind wandered in loneliness. He wasn’t built to fall in love, or have dreams and aspirations. There wasn’t much excitement and he was too lonely a being. But he was always surrounded by other beings around him; the ants, the frogs, plants, trees and insects. Even at nights the crickets and the frogs kept him awake with their cacophonous symphonies. During the day a few fat buffaloes or a couple of scoundrel dog would climb up and fight amongst each other on some stupid property issues.

But lately the mountain had grown fond of his loneliness, there were moments when he was undisturbed and that gave him time to think. Think and ponder over the most banal things; His size, his years of existence, he service to the earth and mostly about himself. But on the other side he also pondered over his weaknesses and his fears. Of all the beings he was surrounded by, he never bothered about any of them, except for the black winged kite. He grew more and more scared of the bird in the recent years. Something about that being was not al-right.

It was as if the kite possessed some dark powers, and was a messenger of dark lord. Not that the mountain knew anything about the existence of any such thing, because he never bothered to move around or enquire. But now in his old age, he wanted to know where did this kite creature come from? The mountain did not have any control over the kite. The kite came as he pleased and ate whatever he pleased; sometimes it was those noisy crickets, them folks the mountain did not mind so much being attacked. But something the kite also hunted other large insects, lizards, snakes, frogs and some smaller birds. The vile kite would fly so high up in the sky to show his superiority and then with his dark powers target a prey and then come down with full throttled – faster than the F 16’s – to capture its prey.

The mountain hated the kite, and his hatred grew stronger during their breeding period, which lasts for several months during the year. He was irritated with their contemptible noise they made during courtship and the eggs that were left behind in the special pockets they called nests. The mountain could have just smashed the eggs if he wanted to, but it wasn’t in his nature to hit any other creature. After making several enquiries at the base, the chirpy white flamingos advised him not to take any measures against the kite. They said that their cousins in Australia and some other lands, told about legends where they these vengeful creatures captured the mountains and made their permanent homes. All their 200 hundred brothers and sisters occupy a single mountain and keep torturing the poor soul for years. It’s better to be away from these evil folks. Even we flamingos do not talk to them and keep away from any interaction whatsoever.

The kite was gliding in circles at 2000 ft, changing its altitude as he pleased. He was speaking to himself, loudly enough for anybody to hear him, but there wasn’t anybody around him.

He said ‘It’s fu*king lonely up here’

He looked down at other white birds flying in groups with envy. He continued his banter in the empty sky ‘Damn you, white little geese, you irritatingly white creatures. How can you be so white? God damn…it’s preposterous…what do the men feel like in your community…white is such a feminine colour…black is a man’s colour…have you heard any charmingly handsome male walking into an evening party in a white suit…God awful…Damn you losers…Uff it’s also hot up here…and this God-forsaken black colour retains so much of this bloody heat…why does the Sun has to be so fucking bright all the time…it hurts my eyes and I cannot concentrate on my prey’.

The kite has become irritatingly nagging lately. He was most upset with God, as there was nobody in his life he could call a friend or family. He thought a couple of times to fly high and move beyond the blue sky and have serious conversation with God. But every time flew above his permissible range, he had difficulty breathing. He tried several tricks, controlling his breathing, yoga, meditation but couldn’t cross the clouds above. He then realized that to meet God he must die. One of these days, he will take a break from him routine and die and go see him.

‘God knows when will I ever get to eat again…? He made it so easy for these folks…’ The kite said looking down at the snake sexily walking on one side of the mountain, and a rat quietly galloping on the other side of mountain – Don’t know why the stupid rat always felt he was galloping, he should get acquainted with the horses sometime – ‘these idiots don’t have to worry about their foods, it’s right there where they live and if you are a vegetarian and God has given them food everywhere. Why didn’t he make us a vegetarian? I on the other hand have to wander around for hours to find food? Damn you God and your good-of-nothing creatures… So the kite couldn’t decide which one to eat today? Who had more nutrition?

The rat eats all the left-overs, there couldn’t be any protein, plus he is too fat for his size, so there will be a lot of excess fat. All the fat would give me acidity in the night. I think I’d settle down for the snake for lunch’. This was his daily routine. He’d start off for work very early in the day. Roam about a few kilometres, in between rest a little, have some water in some pond and then hold a meeting with himself under the open sky around 11.00 am and by 1.00 pm he’d decide about the day’s lunch. Hunt at 2.00 pm, and finish eating by 4.00 pm, by 6.00 pm he is back home and tired to go to sleep. As he was done with the decision, he began to get ready for the landing. His landing gears, the legs, will come down only few seconds before hitting the ground, he adjusted the feathers on his wings to begin the downward slide toward its target.

Why is it called Creative Writing?

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A good writer is an exceptionally good observer. He observes the intricacies of life like no one else or rather no one else bothers to. His job is to then express those observations into meaningful words. The choice of right words is important but not as important as the art of observing. Hence I say that it should be called observant writing. A character in a novel or a screenplay is mostly from the writers past, or sometimes they are a combination of people the writer had come across. Those poor souls riding on a bus, sitting in a park, walking on the street are oblivious to the fact that some creepy writer wearing a hideous sweat-shirt is sitting in the corner and observing their unintentionally flawed mannerisms; the half crooked smile, the twitching of the eyes, playing with your hair et cetra. The writer seldom creates something new. What he does best, is mostly put across several characters or situations – he has come across in his life – on a common platform so as to create conflict. All writing is conflict. Unless there is conflict between two characters, or the characters situation the story does not move forward.

So technically it should be called observant writing…

 

What the hell is writers block?

Seriously what the hell is it? Writers who have gone through it, define it as worst than hell. As it is, a writer struggles through self-doubt, fear-of-bad-writing, laziness and a million other unimportant excuses that prevent him to write. But the consistent bastard wouldn’t just give up. He’d sit down every day and stares for long hours into the blank screen, playing the same sadistic game every day “who blinks first? the cursor or my next typed letter?”. But what happens when the writer suddenly stops writing. The words simply won’t come out. It seems as if his brain his paralyzed and he cannot form straight sentences with the intentional meaning. His thoughts are distorted, as if he has lost all syllables, pronunciations and the basic knowledge of communication. During this phase to type one word on the blank screen takes more effort than pushing the earth out of its orbit. This gut wrenching effort tires him and beats him hollow in the end.  ‘I mean dude, I was born to write, how can I simply not – write. I have lost the purpose to live. I don’t what I am living for? I have successfully lived within the social framework of the society till now. I act normal in public, speak politely to elders and young ones, I even attend few obligatory social events once in a while and smile while my picture is taken. It was a simple trade-off, I’d continue to think I am fooling them, and they continue to think that I am a fool – for living the life of a writer. But now what do I do?’ In the equation of life, writing is the only constant, rest everything – family, relationships, money, fame, happiness and sorrow are all variables, they keep changing and switching places with one another. But writing has to remain constant, or the equation remains inconsistent. Yes we have all read those blogs about how to beat the writers block, and yes I am still reading it parallelly, and YES we have all read those 25 pointers by all the great writers on how to write better. But if everybody knows the answer why do we writers still fall in this same trap. Honestly none of this helps. A writers journey on his own, he alone is the captain of the ship, he is the passenger and he is alone rows the propellers against the tides with his bare hands. So nobody can really help him here, he has to find his way out from the bottom of the pit, he has dug himself into. It takes heart, it takes courage and it takes a true writer to come out of it. For unless he travels through the most unseen, unheard and unimaginable place in his head, he’d never be able to put across a fresh idea on a piece of paper. Writers block is indeed hell, and I am just beginning to get out of it. Word count 475 and still counting…

I met an old friend, asked him ‘how r u doin?’,

He couldn’t see me straight but his broken smile spoke a thousand words.

We were close, and I had to know so I pestered ‘r u alright?’

The tears rolling down his left cheek highlighted the struggle he went through,

When I pushed him saying ‘bastard I’m your friend, answer me, what happened?’

He just kept staring back at me.

I then realized close friends are not that polite, your own reflection is…

This tough life, the choices you made, the regrets you live with and the spirit that you walk along with. This is your pursuit and nobody can or should do it for you except you yourself. For a simple reason that, if you achieve, you will achieve it alone. You will stand on the podium alone and soak-in all the lime light before giving your thank-you- all speech. But if you fail, and that you will, in fact multiple times, it will be your failure alone. You will have to own in, sink it in, keep is treasured inside your heart and learn from it but keep walking ahead alone. Nobody said it was going to be easy but you chose this difficult path and now you have to carve your own road ahead. Cherish those small successes, learn from big/small mistakes and keep walking till to reach your goal.  This is the way it is and this is the way it always has been. Because in the end its all about you. This is Ego, the self realization of an individual.

Sochta hoon ki likhna chod doo

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Purani almari jisko hum showcase kehte the

Papa ke jawani ka Sunmica darwajo pe jispe lohe ke handle lage the

Usmese nikali ek dhool khati hui dairy

Dairy aadi bhari thi aadi khaali

Socha baaki ki aaj bardu

Kalse Phir likhna chod doo

Muflasis si jo jee choti si zingadi usse peeche chod doo

Kisi Marwari ke yahaan phir naukri doondh loo

Gharwaalo se maafi mangoo aur abh yaha se chalta banoo

Aaj ke baad udhar pe jina chod doo

Sochta hoon ki likhna chod doo

Shuruat main bada dheet tha, Kisi ki sunta nahin tha

Sab pareshan the mujshe aur main unse khafa tha

Apne kehte the tujhmein badi akad hain

Abh toh uss akaad ki kamar tuti hui, aur ghootne kamzor hain

Na chahte hue apno ko rula chukka hoon

Sochta hoon abh yeh zidd chod doo

Sochta hoon ki likhna chod doo

Bade chaav se likhi thi TV ke liye English comedy

Jab koi show bana sakha to likh di ek kitaab

Usse main bhi ek hero tha, hero kya kahoon bilkul zero tha

Roz ghirta padta tutta hua tragedy se comedy banata phirta tha

Puri hui kitaab toh bhej di kuch publishers ko

Publisher toh chodo pada toh apno aur doston ne be nahin

Bura laga thoda par shikwa koi nahin

Shayad mujhi mein koi kami rahin hogi thi

Abh bahot der ho chuki hain ki woh kami puri kar loo

Sochta hoon ki likhna hi chod doo

Aaj kal Television studio’s ke chakkar kaat ta phirta hu

Ghisis hue suede ke jooto ko aur ghisata hu

Thodisi Purani rayeesi kapdo meinse abh bhi jalakti hain

Branded goggles aur gadi badi lambi jo chalti hain

Bachi hui boondein perfume se nichod laya hoon

Aaj phir dasvi baar usssi director se milne aayaa hoon

Bheek mangne, ki kuch likhne ka mauka to do

Aakhir naya writer hu, sikhne ka ek mauka to do

Badi mara maari hain inn offico main

actron ki fauj roz aati hai kaam ke silsiley main

Kaam bas ek aadaa ko hi mil paataa hain

Mere bazoo main ek tamatar se jyada sundar actor baitha tha

Shiddat se apni linein ratta hua, chehre se ajib ajib harkatein kartaa hua

pagal sa jaan padta tha

Maine kah,aan “bhai aache ghar ke ho kyon yahaan jhak mara rahien ho”

Kehene laga “ Bhai Roz issi umeed main ghar se aataa hu,

ki aaj kismet badlegi, aur kisi producer ki nazar mujhpe padegi

Par shyamko lagta hain ki struggle kartein kartein puri zindagi kat jayegi

bhai iss industry ka yahi dastoor hain,

Struggler ko laat aur agar kaam mil jaaye toh that hoti hain,

Waise tumbhi koi khandani garib toh lagte nahin,

toh kyun is garibi ke profession main padeho hue ho?

Jao jaakar koi aur kaam doondhoo”

Roz inhi struggling actron ke beech baitha rehta hoon

Aur Sochta rehta hoon ki likhna chod doo

Makaan maalik ne phir khiraya bada diya,

Struggle kartein kartein ek saal pata nahin kaise guzar gaya

Bechari makaan maalkin ko mujhpe taras aataa hain

Kiraya toh kam nahin karva sakti isliye

koi graho ke mandir ka address bataya hain

Kehti hain – Acha bura waqt toh sabka aataa hain,

Aakhir insaan hi insaan ke kaam ataa hain

Sochta hoon Graho se apne harkaton ki maffi maang loo

Sochta hoon ki likhna chod do

Samay kitni jaldi badal gaya

Peechlee rakhi mein behen ke paas nahin gaya

Toh Choti behen naaraz rehti hain,

Mujhe apne se chota jaankar dhaant ti hain

Naa hi chote bhaiyo ke liye kuch kar paya

Na hi apno se badho ki umeed puri kar paya

Filhaal apno ki dhaant sunkar hi unhein khus kardoo

Sochta hoon ki likhna chod doo

Abh tak kuch khaas likha hi nahin

Toh phir kaise likhna chod doo

Abhi pura lekhah bana nahin

Toh kaise lekhah ki maut maar doo

Abhi toh theek se jiya hi hain

Aur aap ke kehne se jeena chod doo?

Roz subhe uthke ladta hu kore kaagaz se

Jung si chidti hain dil ke taron main

Kahaan se shuruat karoo, aaj kya likhoo

Saikhdo sabdo ke teero ka waar karta hu us kagaaz pe

Tab kahin jaake do linein achi lagti hain

Shyam tak chaar panne bhar nahin pata hoon

Bhar bhi loo toh kisi ko suna ahin pata hoon

Kyon akela ghar mein biatha, ghut ta rahoon

Deewaron ko taakta rahoo aur khud se baatein karoo

Aakhir sochta hoo ki likhna chod doo

Life ke saarein kaam adhoorein reh gaye

Josh main likhe saare pane unsune reh gaye

Jaise koi nahin padega is kavita ko bhi

Jaise kissi ko pata na chalega mein lekhah tha kabhi

Khudhi ke banaye hue andhero main ghum hogaya hoon

Inhi andhero main sir peet ta, bhaagta phirta hu

Dharwaaje maine andhar se band kar diye the

Toh koi aur kaise mujhe bahar nikalega yahaan se

Main hi khud kuch karta hoon, kundi kholta hoon

Aur sochta hu ki likhna chod doo

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Koi bada shayar nahin, gulzar nahin hoon

Bahot chota hoon, mamooli sa tinka bhi nahin hoon

Umar, samaj mein aur talent mein bhi

Par chota hi sahin writer to hoo

Kaise apne aap ko chod doo

Batao kaise likhna bandh kardoo

Kaise Apna dil nikaal kar rakdoo aur jiyoo

Pata nahin kyun roz sochta hoon ki likha chod doo

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Aaj phir Gulzar padha, to thoda aur socha

Mann nahin mana ki kitaab bandh kar doo

Laga ki padhta raha hoon, unhein suntaa rahoon

Suraj ki tapan mein jalta rahoon,

chand ki chandni mein bigta rahoon

na neend se uthoon, unlok mein udtaa rahoon

Thoda aur seekhoon aur seekhta rahoon

Shayad issi bahane kuch acha likdoon

Akhir kyun main phir likhna chod doo…