Metamorphosis 2010: Celebrating Game Changers

Metamorphosis 2010 is a mass media event, organised by MET Institute of Mass Media students, which is a vivid patronage to the game changers of the industry. These game changers were passionate, visionary, convicted, perseverant, curious, believers and rebels. This event is a salute to the qualities of the game changers, a salute to the game changers themselvers, who created history.

Come, be a part of this one-of-a-kind mass media event:

Belief

Stephen Hawking or J.K. Rowling, Amitabh Bachchan or Abraham Lincoln, Beethoven or Edison, Walt Disney or Leonardo da Vinci - the most powerful and  iconic figures in world history first shook hands with utterly unfortunate happenings, be it physical shortcomings, outright societal rejection or professional miscarriages (in a few cases, a combination of all three).  Still, they brushed off all these tags and proved them to be insignificant like nonchalant strong waves gushing over tough rocks and finally reaching the seashore; their destination. 

One strong common ingredient that empowered them to do this was their belief in themselves. Who would have thought that a deaf lad, would go on to become one of the world’s greatest music composers?! Well, that’s Beethoven’s story! Who would have ever imagined that a ‘spastic’ would go on to write about the black holes and give out ‘the theory of everything’?! Stephen Hawking did just that! After being rejected by a host of directors, Amitabh Bachchan pelted along to achieve penultimate success! All that kept them floating was sheer belief in themselves and perseverance (not discrediting the unmatchable talent and intelligence that they possess!)  

In simple words, a man is what he believes. If you think you are a loser, you exactly are that! But if you think you are a rockstar , I’m sure you are already enamouring the people around! So let your belief transform the way people think, instead of letting their thoughts bog you down. Believe in yourself and follow your dreams and then success will be taken care of. Just remember to not just rest on the laurels you achieve, take them to another level, with the fire of self belief burning within.

Today, when I’m sitting on my couch, trying to allow all the success stories to pry into my mind, i wonder if half a century from now (yes, I believe I’ll live that long..), when I’ll be rocking my chair, wearing bifocal glasses, some other young lad would be penning down the story of my life – err….actually I BELIEVE someone will!

Vision the Prerequisite

    Vision is the most basic prerequisite for anyone to achieve their goals. A clear vision gives you the right direction to proceed towards it. Vision can prepare us for the bad and the worse which may in turn prove good for us. Clearer the vision the closer you are to your goal. This is why many visionaries are big time game changers in their field. A real game changer is the one who has a clear vision. It may not be a long term vision but there has to be one.

    Vision plays a major part in bringing out the best in a person and helping him/her to be a success story. However, to achieve this you do not need specs with high power. It is important to understand that only vision may not help, but action with vision, which will make you to be a game changer. Bollywood King SRK would not have reached such great heights if he did not know what he wanted.

“Vision without action is a dream. Action without vision is simply passing the time. Action with Vision is making a positive difference.” - Joel Barker

The Birth of a Rebel

We are all rebels. Some of us, with a cause, and sadly the rest are wannabes.  From the day we set foot upon earth, we are fighting, competing, outdoing, stepping on toes, indulging in cat fights, hair pulling incidents, just to get our way and justify our existence.

What makes an underdog rise to a situation and get his way, a la matrix style? While the rest watch with gaping wide mouths. He is subdued and suppressed, his days are spent brooding and whimpering after the previous night’s whopping. His thoughts are drained, his feelings are confiscated and his will is broken day after day. Until a new dawn, when he picks up the baton, finds his voice and I must say when he does it’s like a lions roar. He vows to seek and set his enemies ablaze. The demons may be inside him, but he is possessed by an undying will to emerge victorious. And he lives a life like Sunny Deol does in the movies, any uprising against him has to meet his fist first, and there is no stopping the hurricane soon to arrive. 

The other kind of rebel, (the one who actually isn’t a rebel), packs his bags in sheer frustration caused by reasons as miniscule as cat poop at their doorstep for a third consecutive day. And mind you the packing too is quite elaborate. He rides off on his Royal Enfield trying with difficulty to balance his bulky suitcases wanting to look cool. He grows his hair long, quits shaving, skips showers and drinks beer all day; all in all works up quite a stench. His main motive in life becomes unending hours at bars, spinning tall tales wanting to earn brownie points with the ladies. And when his fire subsides, he comes back home with a sullen look on his face and goes back to mundane routine. News flash! You’re a disgrace to rebels and nothing but a poser. The only thing you’re rebelling against is clean underwear. 

How Not to be a Rebel

After dinner I stormed into my room, threw myself onto my bed and started to cry. “This is the last time I’m going to let my mother impose her authority and rules on me”, I cried to myself. And so in between sobs I chalked up a dark and sinister plan, one that involved rebellion.

So first on my ‘how to be a rebel “list I decided I had to have a makeover. The things that mommies hate the most are when their daughters cut their precious hair short. And so I walked into the parlour and I spoke to the hairstylist about how I needed a radical hairstyle. She then led me to a corner of the room where there was no mirror.

I couldn’t wait...and finally the moment was here and when she showed me the mirror...and then...the last thing I remember was someone stuffing a smelly sock under my nose to revive me.

I had fainted with the shock of seeing my reflection...i resembled a PINK COCKATOO. The blasted woman gave me a Mohawk and decided to dye my hair pink. There was no undoing the damage. And in between my sobs the hairdresser kept consoling me how it was only hair and that it would eventually grow back.

So well anyway I was sure that my mother was going to hate it more than me. Except at home they all laughed at me and wanted to take pictures of me so they could frame it.

So much for the hairdo causing a stir. I decided I had to do the next thing on my how to be a rebel list. And no self respecting rebel, I decided could be complete without a tattoo.

And so I broke my piggy bank and skipped along to this famous tattoo parlour. This was it alright, I felt right at home...with all these kindred souls and their multiple piercings and tattoo’s. I told my tattoo artist that I didn’t know what I wanted but it should symbolise my metamorphosis so he should recommend something.

The tattoo artist smiled and said he knew just what I wanted and that I was in safe hands. And I was so nervous that I kept eyes shut through the whole procedure. BIG MISTAKE!

I now had a pretty colourful tattoo of a butterfly on my wrist...and the tattoo artist had hand imprints around his neck from me choking him for free. How was I to know that he would relate metamorphosis with a butterfly? So unimaginative!

My mum thought the tattoo was very pretty and now wants one for her. And I just looked like a Mariah Carey wannabe with my butterfly tattoo. This was so humiliating...oh the agony.

And finally to get into the skin of being a rebel I decided there was no better way to do it than being a Goth this was easy – all I needed was to wear black clothes and half a kilo of kajal every day.

The hard part was getting the Goths in my college to accept me into their little circle with my pink cockatoo look and the colourful butterfly tattoo.

So for my first meeting with the Goths, we sat in a dimly lit room with candles and one by one they all read out poems about death and grief. If I wasn’t already depressed and suicidal about my hair and the dumb tattoo, I was now, listening to them rattle on and on about their crushed souls.

That was it, I had enough of this nonsense of trying to be a rebel, I was just going to have to tell my mother to stop.

I reached home and told her to her face that I was fed up and that she could not force me to eat my vegetables anymore. And that she could do whatever she liked but I was not budging. Enough with the cauliflower assault! I had eaten my last ladyfinger last night but now...no more.

And that was the end of my mother’s tyranny...except I’m a little constipated right now.

 

One Belief; A World of a Difference

A very long time ago in a little town called Cockadoodledooville, lived a young chick named Sam. Sam’s life was straight out of the stereotypical ‘chicken’s life’ book. His mother, like the other mother hens in Cockadoodledooville, worked in the hatchery and his father, like the other father roosters in Cockadoodledooville, worked in the local pillow making factory. It was a set norm in Cockadoodledooville that every hen would work in the hatchery and every rooster in the factory.

Sam’s father (Rex) loved his job. What a manly job it was to stuff those fragile, cottony feathers into the grainy pillow covers. It made Rex feel more of a man every day and he couldn’t wait for the day when Sam would be on his way to do the same. Sam on the other hand had no interest in becoming a pillow maker. His true passion lied in Cocka-doodle-doo-ing. 

The thought of waking everyone up the moment the first ray of light hit the sky gave him an adrenalin rush like no other grain of corn could give. He believed that he would excel at it and make a name for not only himself but also for his family and town.

But no one in Cockadoodledooville understood his passion and no one stood by his belief. Everyone abused him whenever he cocka-doodle-d, calling him ‘chicken’. His parents would yell at him, tried to put some sense into him but he wouldn’t budge. He didn’t need the consent of anyone to strengthen his belief system.

One day, Sam decided that it was best to leave this dead end town, where nothing was left for him. He would leave the next day at the break of dawn to the farm a few kilometres away from Cockadoodledooville. 

So as the sun opened its eyes to the new day, the citizens of Cockadoodledooville opened their ears to the cocka-doodle-ing of Sam; and what a sound that was. It removed any trace of laziness that remained in the bodies of the people of Cockadoodledooville and they felt excited about this new day. 

Everyone understood it was Sam who was the source of this exquisite sound and realised the folly they had committed. They rushed out of their nests to stop Sam from leaving. But it was too late, they could already see him crossing over to the other side.

Today Sam’s success is still in the history books of Cockadoodledooville. Every chick in Cockadoodledooville now dreams big. Even today they ask ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ to which everyone unanimously answers ‘Because he believed that he could get to the other side’. 

The Return of the Belief

I am staring at the dark sunny whiskey. A fog from the ashes of my just lit cigarette. A jukebox plays behind, a sad soothing song from B.B King’s Bluesy Soul.

Bartender asks me “sonny, feeling low today?”

“One more please...”  I reply.

“The Thrill is gone…”

 A smooth voluptuous jazzy voice in me takes the center stage, “you are burnt out Dear Child”. A huge applause follows. In fact an encore.

Next up is an old country folk husky voice, “a long way ahead Son”. A few clap here and there and dead silence.

The jukebox plays a vacuum of silence.

I get up and step out. A cold wind welcomes me on part of my famous neon lit city.

I stare at the street light that is not lighting that city canvass.

 If this light lamps again I shall move on the long path and if it doesn’t I shall…I do not know what I shall do.

Ten minutes move on. Now I shall count till ten. My last option. My Saving Grace.

10 9 8…. 7… 6….. 5…. 4… 3….. 2…..

 The flickering begins and, and it lightens up the street, the cat from the alley and my soul and my eyes.
 
He is speaking to us and we should listen sometimes.

But he shall speak only if we have the faith, the Belief.

I soak in the fragrance of sweet Belief.

Thank you Belief for returning to me and flickering back in me.

Now I walk again with a bluesy Soul.