Words from Eric Dolphy, legendary jazz musician.
By Ashish Seth w/ Matt Rulli
Categories
August 8, Words from an Artist
Tag: writing
Categories
August 7, Angel Moth
I’ve decided to say what my soul sings to me. Join me on this stream of consciousness ride. It’s like a boat wafting down a river. Try not to think as you read. It helps if you let the water take you without worrying about the direction or the color of the water.
Dear Angel Moth, I have a lot to ask for;
Save the whales. Save the dolphins. Save the polar bears save the chimpanzees and gorillas and starving people in Africa with round pot bellies and bones that show through their skin, small dots of braided hair and dry fat lips and swollen cheeks hovered by darting flies taking small bites of malnourished flesh. They live in muddy huts built with bamboo sticks walled by hay with a soot smear center where they roast the food and set the fire to keep warm. Save the polar ice caps save the poor save the hungry save the ones that love first and never hate the ones that love one another save the ones that don’t need toxins and pills to love one another to feel good about each other feel good about themselves feel good about the world they live in. Save the orangutans and the Guido tan and the man in the van with the black hand who does coke deals in shady alleys in van city and Gerrard street whenever he comes to Toronto on business deals. Save the technological innovators and computer programmers and celebrity bloggers and business starters. Save the college students and the dorm room doofus and his watermelon bong and the dude with the acoustic guitar who plays that creep song on campus during exam time. Save the anti-social who gets good grades and appears humble and brags about it in a Microsoft word document on his apple computer when he gets home from a day of avoiding well-mannered strangers with good intentions. Save the short story writer who does it for the art and the peace of mind it brings to his soul, who dreams of playing with people’s moods like a pianist with a well-tempered piano during a Beethoven symphony, who sees words as more than their definition and logical function, who sees words like musical notes placed together in close proximity to invoke a range of feelings and emotions in their readers that cannot be defined in any way but the way they’ve been placed. Save the scientist working in the university bunker who mixes chemicals to create chemicals to mix chemicals that helps save people inflicted with diseases caused by the imbalance of certain chemicals in their bodies. Save the doctors. Save the lawyers who defend the good and the bad and bend truth and create fictions that no matter how false cause a truth to happen the next day when the judgments are delivered. In India, in a slum somewhere not in Bombay or Delhi or any of the big cities is a young boy who will grandfather generations of some one just like him and eventually some element will change the line in the family and one of his future ancestors will ascend to another class and change the world. In that slum is a boy drinking chai, which he takes with milk and sugar and boils in a little hut not so different from the one that houses the malnourished starving African family described above. All these things are happening and all the time the world is moving because time doesn’t stop. Time is an organizational construct that we’ve gotten so used to that if something happened that couldn’t be explained within that organizational construct, we’d be dumb founded and confused to the point of our brains cracking. Hence time dilation and black holes. Whoops I digress, Whoopee Goldberg, whatever happened to her. I can never ever ever ever ever take her seriously after I watched Sister Act two. Anyways what was I talking about, I was letting my soul sing. All I can do is sit and ponder about the world. All the time the world is moving and there is nothing I can do but move with it. There are gross inequalities and there are GROSS inequalities but who says the world was meant to be fair? Let it be. Let it be.
And now I lapse into spiritual religious thinking and this is never good. Here goes OH GOD OH GOD OH OH OOH- God is a three-legged slum dog in Mexico City who watches little kids skip rocks across the stream in a gully, hoping to see crumbs of bread sticking out of their pockets he can steal. He creeps up and licks the bread out their pockets, and skitters away before they notice. Sometimes they notice and when they do, he realizes much too late when he hears the scampering of their bare feet in the dusty pavement. And then they throw the rocks that he must dodge but there are so many that some of them hit him, causing fresh bruises to swell over old ones. He runs under a rickshaw, sits beside its wheels and eats the piece of bread then licks at his new bruises and finally watches the street vendors to catch em off guard to steal an apple or some fruit off the open stalls. If GOD is humble and peaceful and never changing, then he’s probably been fucked over so many times he’s been driven down to the innocence of a dog trying to survive a street filed with street thugs and their rock throwing sons building experience for their future resumes in crime.
By Ashish Seth
Why I Write. Here’s why.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmerFuzRNZ4&feature=youtube_gdata_player
This scene is one of Will Smith’s highest achievements. It was all improvised. And he has a great relationship with his father. I think about that and it marvels me. How does someone give a performance like this without having gone through something like that? How is this just improvised? Some art is magical in how it mimics life. I saw this scene when I was very little. Fresh Prince had a lot of scenes that were very formative for me. This one felt like real life. This is the most powerful scene I’ve ever watched. Nothing has ever really come close. This scene reminds me of what the essence is of what I’m trying to do with my writing. It may all seem dark. It may all seem twisted and creepy and messed up. It may all seem like it’s a plot unfolding. But I’m honestly trying to get to the underlying humanity of why people are the way they are. That has always been my aim. Like Will Smith in this scene, the goal has always been to reach a cathartic depth that transcends the fact that you’re reading a book, a depth that all people can connect with even if they can’t, and to do so all with a crazy handful of nothing.
By Ashish Seth
If you can’t win her heart, win your’s back.
Categories
July 25, Setting
By Ashish Seth
https://twitter.com/TheAshishSeth
Categories
July 7, Breakthrough
By Ashish Seth
Categories
June 25, Someone’s Listening In
A detail of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks
Horns bust out the speakers
Someone croons out his misery
Some come here for company
Others chase foolish dreams
Are a pen and a pad all you need?
Maybe that’s why you came here hungry
Old bread and condiments
Coffee stains on white plates
Sugar shakers and ketchup bottles
A cup of coffee at this hour
Brings out my inner night owl
I see people as they are
At night they take their masks off
Let their secrets breathe out
But the sharks still watch
Their love leaves holes
Like an attic filled with old clothes
A basket filled with lonely notes
A spleen punctured with shotgun holes
My pen moves faster than their men in trench coats
Who keep their eyes on patrol
Confiscating ideas writ on post-it notes
Into metal empty drawers
I always have the last word
I never the last laugh
I always want people to hear me talk
But I never let them know what it’s all about
I always have something to say
But never do I have a moment to say it
Maybe it’s the way she smiles
Makes the ribs pinch the walls of my stomach
It’s so loud when it gets all quiet
You’re always reading yesterday’s news
Maybe she’ll come around
Don’t presume to know what you don’t
Don’t be modest
It’s dishonest
We all know what you really are
She is the steam that rises from a coffee cup
The caffeine taken black pooling in my stomach
A cup of her at this late hour
Brings out my night owl
I’m waiting on a train
Last one came an hour late
I’m just a pen and a pad of ideas
The last one came a two hours late
By Ashish Seth
It starts with excess and apathy. I delve in dangerous appetites, a thirst for beer and strong shots. I fall down and pass out, black out, and forget how I woke up on a couch with a shirt smeared with vomit on the spot where I lay on. The second stage is emulation, monkey see, monkey do. If the method worked for him and her, than it must work for you. I fall into trenches and underground pathways dug out by men through ages, traveled by multitudes in different stages, different decades, generations. I dig my head in old books and classical compositions, black and white movies, oil paintings, and philosophical statements. Nothing bears my imprint. I find myself in nothing. Another dead-end, I throw myself to mindless working. Third stage. Welcome to the machine, my son, well oiled with new recruits. They tell me I’ll rise if I have something to prove. Out of the black, into the blue, I work for pigs and liars and people who wear masks, appear like angels to the fruitful, normal to the consumers and devils to the menial. I toil under these men, working for a purpose determined by the superiors of superiors. My life left on random, a default parameter, in tandem with a career I don’t give a damn of. Out with friends on the weekends at pubs watching headlines scroll across the rim of the plasma TV screen, watching time slow down to a lazy crawl, I push against the hands of the clock to make the weekend go on long. Sometimes I roll on the floor and laugh my ass off at how bad things have got. Then lash out at loved ones, get depressed and go out to score smack off a college drop out, down a bottle of hard liquor and pass out, black out, wake up in a pool of vomit and forget how. I remember posters in high school halls saying believe in yourself, a little attitude goes far, a little hard work makes life easier, makes the blind spots and metaphysical riddles disappear, if for so long. How long?
What’s wrong? These dreams become hollow each hour they’re worked on.
Then, my mind lights up with an epiphany.
What if I find myself in a belief? What if our identities are beliefs, reflections uncertain, morphing sporadic in streams of water?
Maybe some delusions are necessary. Maybe some illusions are healthy. Maybe the pure definition of belief requires the believer to take a leap of faith. Maybe believing in something is a skill. Because knowledge is backed by interests with deep pockets carrying torches under banners with names and egos and systems of explanation suited for the ways of power. But a belief is a belief. Something they can’t get at. Something they can’t touch unless you let them. A belief can be changed. A belief is malleable. A belief is the substance in the mind we create with. People take advantage of others with knowledge. People take advantage of themselves with belief. For you can never really know who you are. You can only believe in what you were and what you can be.
By Ashish Seth
Categories
May 15, Rules
Don’t judge a book by its movie. – J.W. Eagan
By Ashish Seth
Set to The Walkmen’s Red Moon
A kid named Davis wonders where his father is. He spends all summer wondering. Summer goes by quick. School starts, the wondering persists. When he was six, his father disappeared. Some said the FBI took him away. Others said he couldn’t take the grief of his wife’s death and jumped off a cliff. Davis remembers it was summer when he last saw his father.
First period. Fifth grade. History class. Davis arrives early and meets his friend Sandy. Sandy spent his summer on beaches, surfing with his daddy, building sandcastles. Says his daddy taught him how to talk to girls.
“He’s a master. He says some boys are good at it and some suck. The boys who are good, get wives. The boys who suck, get hoes.”
“What’s a hoe?”
“It’s a girl who’ll be your friend if you buy her ice cream from the beach-stand.”
Second week of school. He notices her in English class. Cat like eyes. Eyelashes that curve. Brown hair. Streaks of gold. Rosy cheeks. Her name’s Claudia. Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. In that moment that becomes the greatest name in the world. He walks home that day with a heaviness in his belly, a brightness in his heart, a strut to his walk.
The next day, recess, he asks Sandy to teach him how to talk to girls.
“All right, I can help you but my daddy says I shouldn’t do things for free. You have to pay me.”
“C’mon, we’re friends aren’t we? Friends help friends.”
“Yeah but only after knowing each other for a long time, say perhaps two years. Then, help is free.”
“All I got is this bag of chips.”
Sandy snatches the bag, puts his arm around Davis’s shoulder and walks with him, smiling.
“It’s sort of like talking to boys but being nice all the time and letting them get what they want.”
“Makes sense… Is that it?”
“Yup.”
“But that’s how I talk to everyone,” says Davis.
“Then you’re not thinking when you talk.”
“C’mon, there has to be something more.”
“My dad has a manual called ‘Codes for Bros’ or something. I could bring it tomorrow,” says Sandy.
Tomorrow.
“Yeah I’m not allowed to touch that book. My mommy says it’s filthy,” says Sandy.
“Now what do I do?” says Davis.
“You’re supposed to learn the method from your dad,” says Sandy.
“I don’t have a dad,” says Davis.
“Ask your mom.”
“My mom’s dead.”
“Ask your grandpa.”
“He talks to my little cousins like they’re pets.”
“I can’t help you. I’m still learning myself,” says Sandy.
“I bet I can find out how on the Internet,” says Davis.
Sandy shakes his head.
“My dad tells me if I look at girls on the Internet, I’ll transform into a creepy bear forever and the FBI will take me away.”
“Well would you look at these two losers?”
A deep voice. A tall boy named Bradley walks up with his cronies. He’s only in grade five and he already has muscles and excels in gym and nothing else.
“What do you want Bradley?” says Sandy.
“You two ready for another year of beats?”
“Go to hell Bradley. Leave us alone,” says Davis.
“Isn’t that where your dad went? Oh yeah, wasn’t he taken away by the FBI because he was doing some scientific experiments? Oh yes, trying to open a portal to the devil.”
“Shut up, Bradley. Don’t talk about my dad.”
Bradley’s face becomes serious, the face he makes before he beats on Davis.
“What’re you going to do? Huh, Davis?”
Davis and Sandy get their butts kicked. As he lies flat on the ground, he sees Claudia’s eyes looking at him from the school doors. The bell rings.
That day he doesn’t strut home, his mind consumed with what she might think of him. He needs to learn how to talk to girls. Fast. Before he gets even more humiliated. He asks grandfather. Grandfather laughs and continues reading his newspaper. Grandmother thinks it’s cute and tells all her bingo friends over the phone.
The Internet. I guess he’ll have to risk turning into a bear.
“Grandfather, can we buy a computer.”
“We already have one. Come with me.”
Grandfather takes Davis to the attic and pulls out a box of computer parts. It’s an old tower CPU. Windows 98 CD-ROM. It was Davis’s dads.
“If you can fix it, you got yourself a new computer.”
“Grandfather, this is from the 90s.”
“It’s a computer. It’ll always be new.”
Davis looks into the black screen of the monitor. At his reflection. Sees his father in his face. Sees his father somewhere in the screen.
He lies in bed that night thinking of her. He misses her. How can he miss her? Does he love her? Already? He wakes up and realizes he likes cats all of a sudden.
On the weekend, he goes to the library and takes out books on computers. He remembers Claudia was reading a book called Twilight in English class. He checks the book out, starts reading it for clues about her, wonders where all the vampires are.
The Monday, he tells Sandy about his crush on Claudia.
“Dude, she is popular,” says Sandy. “I heard she knows Lady Gaga. I’d never get used to all that attention.”
“I like her, dude. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“I got it,” says Sandy.
“What?”
Sandy smiles and rubs his fingers. Davis sighs and gives Sandy another bag of chips.
“We write her a poem.”
“I don’t know how to write a poem. I can barely write a paragraph.”
“WE don’t have to write it. We’ll just copy parts of popular songs.”
“God! That’s brilliant!”
Second recess, they head to the library and look up songs on the Internet, copy a few lyrics, print them out, fold the paper up, and head to Math.
Math class begins, he passes the page along. It reaches Claudia. As soon as she gets it, Mr. Rodgers notices.
“Claudia? What do you got there?”
“Sir? Nothing sir. Just a paper.”
“Just a paper my balls! Why don’t you come up here and read it.”
Claudia swallows, walks up to the front, unfold the paper. Her curvy eyesbrows rise in disbelief when she sees what’s written. Then a smile that melts Davis’s heart.
“Read it, please,” says Mr. Rodgers.
She clears her throat.
“If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go
I can take you places you ain’t never been before.”
She stops, shakes her head, starts to giggle.
“Go ahead,” says Mr. Rodgers.
“Swag swag swag, on you
Swag swag swag, on me”
The whole class bursts into laughter.
“Quiet! Continue.”
“You don’t know you’re beautiful!
So let me tell you
If you let me, here’s what I’ll do
I’ll take care of you
Because,
I get money
I get paper
I get girls of different flavours.
I’m sexy and I know it
I got brothers in paris
I got no love for hoes
Just thought you should know it
The real is on the rise
Forget them other guys,
Here’s my number,
so call me, baby … your secret admirer… Wait, there’s no number here.”
“Who the crap wrote this?” says Mr. Rodgers. “Hmmm? Come out now or the whole class has a quiz tomorrow.”
Sweat runs down Davis’s face. No one comes forward.
“All right then, a quiz it is.”
Sandy gives Davis a dirty look as the bell rings and they leave.
“That was your chance. It was worth the detention but you chickened out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That poem was beautiful. Now no one will know it was us!”
Tuesday. He sees her smiling at Bradley, smiling, as he talks. SMILING! His stomach fills with the worst feeling in the world. What if Bradley took credit for the poem? Bradley, who only excels at gym because he’s tall enough to hang off the basketball net. Davis feels depressed for the first time in his life. He eats his lunch alone in an abandoned stairwell on a window ledge. He stares out the window and wonders: Why would she like him at all? What does he have? He remembers something his grandfather told him when he was seven.
“The name of the game is power. You ain’t got power, you’re in the wrong place.”
Davis has no power at all. He looks at the clouds and beyond the horizon he sees cat like eyes and streaks of gold in her hair. The feeling in his stomach is a mixed bag of anticipation and nausea. Emanating. A paused anticipation. An unending nausea. A cat held off the ground by its collar. Flailing. Helpless. He can’t take it anymore.
He approaches her in English class.
“Hi, my name is Davis.” The words come out of his mouth like low volume television speakers. She doesn’t hear him. Doesn’t even notice him standing a foot away from her desk. But Mrs. Sperling, however, does notice. She rebukes him for speaking when she’s addressing the class. The whole class laughs and in the midst of that laughter, Claudia’s eyes finally see him. The expression on her face. Like she just took a crap.
He goes home, depressed once again. He just lost his chance. He starts building his computer. He needs the Internet. He doesn’t care if he turns into a bear. He takes out all the parts from the box. Mouse. Keyboard. Hard drive. Power cable. Fan. IDE Cable. Ethernet Cable. Motherboard. Power supply. Internal speaker. RAM. CPU. Floppy drive.
He follows the book, plugs the parts in sockets, plugs the computer in and presses the power button. Nothing happens. He looks over the computer and realizes what he’s missing: PS/2 cables.
He spends the evening going door to door asking for the cables. No one has any. Most people don’t know what they even are.
Then, a girl opens the door. She’s Punjabi. Black hair. Ponytail. Braces. Square rimmed glasses. The house smells like Indian cooking. A television in the background.
“Hi. I’m Davis. You have any PS /2 cables.”
She looks at his face for a long time. Then says.
“I have a PS3.”
He shakes his head.
“No, not a console. It’s for my computer.”
“I was joking. I know what you’re talking about. Let me get them for you.”
She returns with the cables.
“I’m building a computer,” says Davis.
“I’m really good at building computers. I build them all the time with my dad. My name is Rosie… Rosie Gill.”
They shake hands and she smiles. They stand there on the steps looking at each other for a few moments.
“What school do you go to?” says Davis.
“Same as you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, you haven’t seen me, tho,” she says. “I might be in another grade 5 class… I’ve seen you though.”
“Rosie! Rosie, come do the dishes,” screams her mother.
“Oh… okay, well, thanks for the cables,” says Davis.
Rosie looks inside, closes the door, whispers.
“You know, I could come and help you.”
They go back to Davis’s house, plug the cables in, press the power button. It turns on. A black screen. Words scroll up. The screen pops. A chittering sound of static popping. The screen fills with light blue. Windows 98. Home Edition. Loading.
“This is an old computer,” says Rosie.
“It was my dad’s.”
“You should get a new one.”
The screen loads to a desktop. A dozen icons. He grabs the mouse.
“Where’s the Internet?” he says.
“I guess this before Firefox,” says Rosie.
She puts her fingers on his, finds Internet explorer, double clicks with him. His insides fill with helium. She takes her hand away. He calms.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Sorry for what?”
“Never mind.”
The window loads to an error page.
“Why isn’t it working?”
“You don’t have Internet access.”
“Damn.”
“You could come to my house tomorrow… if you want.”
“I’m afraid to use the school computers.”
“Why? What are you looking up?”
He hesitates. An awkward silence.
“I want to learn how to talk to girls properly.”
“Well… you’re talking to me properly.”
“It’s not just that… there’s this girl at school. Claudia. I kinda like her and don’t want to screw up. I don’t how to approach her.”
“I know Claudia. Apparently she knows Lady Gaga.”
“What do I do?”
“Just ask her out.”
“To where?”
“To the beach.”
“And do what?”
“By her an ice cream cone.”
“But that’s what you give to a hoe.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Rosie rubs her arm awkwardly.
“You know what… We could pretend… You could be my boyfriend.”
Davis’s stomach fills with helium once again and he looks at the icons on the desktop.
“It can be until you find someone better. And I could teach you all that I know. Plus it’ll make her jealous. I read that in a magazine that I wasn’t supposed to read.”
“Okay,” says Davis. “Let’s try that.” He’s willing to try anything.
The next day. At recess. Davis and Rosie hold hands and walk around showing off. Sandy laughs when he sees them.
“Pretending is the worst,” says Sandy.
“We’re not pretending.”
Second recess, Davis and Rosie run into Bradley.
“Look at this. The little loser is dating a Paki.”
This angers Davis. He pushes Bradley. Bradley punches him in the face and floors him, then walks away laughing.
Rosie kneels down to pick up Davis.
“No, get away from me,” he says, pushing her away.
“Davis,” she looks into his eyes. “I could love you.”
Davis gives her a weird expression. She barely knows him. How could she possibly…
“Get away from me.”
He walks away.
That night, Davis sits at his computer, fed up. He decides to explore it. Decides to find out what his dad was like. He sees a word document on the desktop titled “Davis”. He opens it. He sees the following text:
“Son, if you’ve opened this, I’m gone. I must keep this short. I want to pee before they take away. I knew you’d be able to put the computer together. With the power of this computer, you’ll be winning for the rest of your life. Never let the bastards get you down! Never. Just do whatever the hell you want! They’ll never know what’s coming to them! Click on Prtnd.exe. My life’s work is the best thing I can give you. I apologize for the discomfort. First time’s a bitch.”
Confused, Davis double-clicks on an application called Prtnd.exe. It asks him to enter his name, birth, every little particular he can think of. Then it leads to a blank prompt screen. He clicks “file’, ‘new”. It calibrates, opens a new file. On the bottom left corner, there’s a button that says “Refresh.” He clicks it. There’s a bright flash outside his window. He clicks again. Another flash. Clicks. Another.
Weird. Another button beside “Refresh” says “Run”.
He clicks it and-sd sfsldfgds l jglsdkfvj ;sdlkfgvl;ksdjf ;lksdjfgv;l jsdlvjl;asjd sauhi yg a psdfgsdfgsdfgsdfg;aksp uzxocso soeifhisd hssdfsdfpsdfjsoidfjos hdiufhsdoisdfoisdhosdhfos hdf hosdfhosdosdfh asdpsdfgsohdfioasdfsadghsdiufh sdfgu s’dfgsdfgs dfgiosdfogoisdfug osdfg sdfsiodufh iusdh CLEANing sdfshdifsiudfisd hfuishdifsidufhsiudfhuisdhfus idfisu dhfuisd hfiusdhf shiudfhsdf sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-.
He wakes up in front of the computer. Time to go to school. Takes a shower. Doesn’t notice the muscles. Walks to school. Doesn’t notice the confidence.
Sandy is away today. So are Ms. Sperling and Mr. Rodger. Weird.
He sees Claudia. He walks up to her.
“Hey I like you. I want to take you out,” he says.
“It ain’t easy. A lot of people want to ask me out. Why should I go with you?”
“Because I’m dangerous,” he says with a straight face.
“Where you going to take me?”
“To the beach.”
“Okay, then. Today, after school.”
After school. At the beach. It’s all awkward. He has nothing to talk to her about. He tries talking about cats. She hates cats. They run into Bradley.
“You’re going out with this loser?”
“I’m not a loser,” says Davis.
“Yeah Bradley, I don’t know what I’m doing here with him. Seriously, he hasn’t even bought me an ice cream cone yet.”
Davis looks at her and nods. He knew it.
“Sandy was right,” he says.
“Whatchu say? Creep?” says Bradley.
“You’re a hoe, Claudia.”
“Hey, don’t call her that!” Bradley moves in to punch Davis.
Davis knees him in the belly, cracks his ribs, grabs his right arm, twists, cracks. Left arm. Twists. Cracks. Punches in the face. Plack! Floored!
Claudia gasps in horror. Davis is stunned. How did he just do that? Then his mind fills with Rosie’s face. She wasn’t pretending yesterday. He runs to her house, leaving Claudia.
Davis rings her door bell. No answer. Rings again. She opens it. Comes outside.
“Rosie!” screams her father.
“None of it was pretend yesterday,” says Davis.
“I’m sorry,” says Rosie. “I’m not that good of an actor. Pretending is hard. Listen. My father’s pissed right now. If he sees me with you, he’ll.”
“Rosie,” says Davis. He looks deep into her eyes. “Rosie… I don’t know what this means but… I could love you too.”
They look at each other for a few moments. They both take steps forward. They both lean in. A moment. Then.
They kiss.
The door opens. Her father. Stained wife beater. He grabs her, starts cursing in Punjabi. Drags her in.
“It was worth it Davis. It was worth it!” she says with a euphoric smile.
The door closes. Davis smiles as her father shouts at her.
By Ashish Seth
Categories
April 16, The Hand That Feeds
Set to Baths’ Lovely Bloodflow
“Don’t we aim with your eyes and kill with our hearts using six-shooters made of ink?” – Jody Aberdeen on writing
Music Selection by Nisha Gandhi
By Ashish Seth
Ashish Seth 