Nakul S

Aspiring Polyglot. Lover of films.

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Defiant

I recently finished watching ‘The Defiant Ones’ on Netflix. Its a 4-part documentary series by HBO. It looks at the musical journey of Dr. Dre, the acclaimed artist and Jimmy Iovine, the record producer. Dr. Dre is the quiet imaginative wizard, who essentially gives birth to gangsta rap genre, while Jimmy Iovine is the brash record producer who tries to get the best out of the artists around him, producing hit record after record, finding talent like Gwen Stefani, Eminem, and Snoop Dogg. The whole series was raw and inspiring, a punch to your gut to go out there and create something of your own.

I also recently heard Mr. Prasoon Joshi speak. He’s a legendary adman, lyricist and writer in India, famous for writing some of India’s most loved ads. He spoke about creating his Cannes-winning campaign ’Thanda Matlab Coca-Cola‘ of the 90s. It was a treat to listen to him recount his stories.

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Per aspera ad astra

Through difficulties to the stars. Through the pain of silence, of inner turmoil, of people not understanding what went on within you.

The tears are at the brink, but they don’t come. I think of the time we spent together - the talks, the drinking and the music. All the planning, the late nights and the endless puns. But through it all, I remember fondly the constant undercurrent of laughter and joy. I failed to peel off that layer of mirth to see the melancholy. I failed to see the weariness beneath those ever vigilant eyes. We were all puzzled at times, but we buried our doubts beneath our admiration for your sheer brilliance and output.

And so you went. Now the tears come. The doubts, the remorse, and the what-couldve-beens. The never ending what-ifs. The Sun has set now, but the stars will shine brighter tonight. I shall look up, and remember each time that ever-curious...

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Prolific

I recently read this article on Isaac Asimov. He’s a celebrated author - one of the Big Three science fiction writers (with Heinlein and Clarke). He authored some 500 books, 90000 letters, 1600 essays and much more in his lifetime. My favorite word to describe him, other than a polymath, is a prolific writer.

I fell in love with that word - prolific. It seems to have so much gravitas to it. What does it take for someone to be called that? Certainly a lifetime of commitment towards one cause, a maddening unending dedication for one’s craft. However, this raises another question. Do you have what you can care about above all else?

I always thought the hard part was finding what I love to do. I’ve never had that hunger because I never did have that one craft, but I’ll reach there soon. I’m also slowly realizing this year that sticking to it is what will take me from good to prolific.

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Starman

There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’d like to come and meet us
But he thinks he’d blow our minds
There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’s told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it’s all worthwhile

If there’s ever a picture to capture madness and sheer will, if there’s ever a time you thought you needed a dose of crazy, this picture should help.
Capture.JPGImage credits: SpaceX

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Love

What do I say about love that hasn’t already been said before? What do I write here that separates me from the millions of poets and lovers who have come before me, and spoke about their notion of love? A lot has been said about love and the idea of it.

What I want to write about is the love for your art. What you do. When I listen to Carl Sagan talk about space, I don’t feel happy or moved at his words, I feel jealous. And that’s not because he found his calling. I don’t think there is such a thing as calling. That’s just a glamorized concept sold to us by charlatans. I feel jealous because Sagan decided that this is what he wanted to do, and he did not let go. What you describe as ‘found his calling’, I call hard work. As John Mayer said correctly ‘Love ain’t a thing, love is a verb’. Its about action, conscious and determined. Through that action, and the fruit it bears, comes love...

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2017 - A lookback

2017 was a fantastic year. I am a believer in using the word fantastic as much as I am allowed to, but this time I truly mean it. It was funny, it was mysterious, it was inspiring and wondrous and joyful and horrendous and cripplingly sad. There was a lot that happened this year - I finally finished business school, moved to my favorite city and started living on my own again. I met some interesting people, almost drowned in a flood, and saw the total eclipse in all the glory of Mother Nature. I went to South East Asia for the first time, ran hundreds of miles collectively, and had the general time of my life overdosing on peak TV.

I have always meditated about writing a lookback post, but I never have. So this year, I’m writing one from November, collecting my thoughts, gathering all things good and bad that have happened to me this year and putting them all here. I’m talking about...

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Water

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet
an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says
“Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a
bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes
“What the hell is water?”

This is a standard requirement of US commencement speeches, the
deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story [“thing”] turns
out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of the genre, but if
you’re worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish
explaining what water is to you younger fish, please don’t be. I am not the
wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious,
important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk
about.

This is the start of David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech at...

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Last

A scruff. Knees scraping. Bottles softly clinking as they touch the ridge. The climb up. A huff, and a final push over the staircase. Finally, we reach over the edge and unto the rooftop we arrive.

And the view.

A sprawling, endless desert of fire and machinery. Fire and metal. A sea of yellow and orange, and boilers and distillers and molten steel. Exhaust pipes that made constant clouds, each more formidable than the last.

This was the city and that was its skyline.

We sit, seven faces in the dim night on the rooftop, bodies flush with alcohol and wrought with sentiment. Fearful – of the world that awaited us. Terrified – of losing this fragile bond between us and getting lost in the drudgery of everyday madness. The last of the irresponsible drinking and days of pointless laughter and cheap highs.

Silence descends.

We look across into the fire afar, each hoping to find meaning...

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Granny

“The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.” She thought for a moment. Then she smiled.
“Except for Granny, of course.”

If you pause while reading Neil Gaiman, you’ll bump into nuggets of precious writing. I thoroughly enjoyed ‘The Ocean at the End of the Lane’ . It felt like a chapter from the Sandman comics, whimsical, dreamy, monstrous and all-round magical. It was definitely better than what most consider his best book, American Gods. Catch this book sometime, when you’re in the mood for phantasmagoria.

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Run

I went running in the evening today. It was sunny when I left my home, but it became cloudy - the kind of weather where the rain’s unsure of coming down or staying there. And so I reached the crowded SeaFace for my run.

I began running. About 10 minutes in, I was fiddling with my earphones and changing the song when I bumped into someone and almost fell. He was an old man, using a walker for support and a caretaker with him. Shocked, I began to apologize profusely. But he didn’t seem to mind. Not one bit. He looked up and down, sizing me up, gazing at my shoes. He wasn’t angry. He was beaming at me. He seemed so happy that I was running and seemed to find some vicarious joy in it, while the caretaker glared at me. I apologized again, but he waved it off and stared at me as I plugged my earphones back and moved aside to resume my run. Again I looked at him, and he stared back, almost...

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