Topographical truths

“Just because I stand here

Don’t mean I want to”

 

On my visit to Pakistan, my host had taken me close to Afghan border. From where I stood, I could see vast stretches of a barren, rugged, unforgiving terrain. The kind I had never seen before. My host told me that Bamiyan was not far from where we stood. My heart sank seeing a cluster of weathered, eroded, chipped, edgy, unhappy mountains with meandering passes fading at distance.  Thereafter, whenever I heard of terrorists, some how the terrain came to my mind. My mind had forged a strange association.

Bamiyan is left with a gaping hollow, a vacuum, from where Buddha was removed. Its removal carries great symbolic significance. The region lost peace forever.

On my visit to Taxila, I wondered, if the physical presence of Buddha there was any different from the absence of his tall figure from Bamiyan. For that matter, if Buddha was absent in his presence or was present anywhere, other than Bamiyan?

 

Osho once said that Mahabharat was never fought on the battleground of Kurukshetra, it was enacted in the mind of Arjuna, the battleground stood only as a manifestation of mind.

After the TV sets mellowed down their melodramatic, sickening coverage of  one more terror attack on Mumbai, after the public discourse turned a tragic event into a comedy show once again, I wondered whether what Osho observed was true?

 

Forget terrorists who blew away Buddha, have we allowed Buddha to survive in our hearts. Have we allowed Buddha to breathe ? After sitting through hours of non stop aggression of high decibel, razor edged reports on violence, my mind began to echo the same. It became mercenary, it lost balance. And I thought of the Afghan terrain. Do we begin to echo our terrains?

 

  Picture courtesy/ flickr.com/hutsman

Pundits i have known- I

MF Hussain

When I met Hussain, he was 87. I was struck by his amazing wit, charm and warmth. I could not believe the hands I shook were nearing 90. Later when I visited his studio in Hyderabad, it lead me to discovery of a creative genius.
It may not make news anymore that M F Hussain is unable to return to his own country, it still haunts sensitive minds. It is possible, tomorrow anyone of us could be in line for speaking out our mind. For possessing a quality of mind that can be misconstrued easily because it is not understood by pedestrians.
What did Hussain do to earn it?
He gave expression to his experience of beauty. Without experience there cannot be expression in fine arts. And, experience has no religion. Unfortunately, when fine arts enter public domain, chances are that they may not be seen in true perspective. The uninitiated fail to relate to the experience behind the expression.
Hussain saw beauty in life, in different facets of life- in animals, in saints, in gods and in humans. He is gifted with an eye for beauty, no caste or no amount of panditya can bestow one with that eye, Hidu or Muslim. So, the wise would respect him for his gift, the ignorant would only bracket him with his religion to hide their own narrowness of vision. They do not want to see his gift that grows beyond lines drawn by any religion. His own brush transcends him, this is something the militant brand of Hindus do not want to acknowledge.

Will they dig out Kalidasa for writing erotic Kumar Sambhavam, will they burn Khajuraho and Konark, they too are vulgar by their newly found limited Hinduism. What will they do to epicurean philosophy of Ashtavakra and Brahaspati?
I wish these vandals are shown Hussain’s sketches on parliamentarians for their sharp wit and satire on our system. For his sincere concern expressed for his country. His series of paintings on different religions, which reflect his deep erudition and quest. They should be shown his films Meenakshi and Gajgamini for the fantastic visual limits to which he could stretch technique of cinema. If he is guilty of painting goddesses as he imagines them, then the entire Hindu philosophy is at fault, that allows freedom to question even gods. What about many more artists who painted goddesses nude before him?
His rich imagination, his amazing ability to celebrate life and beauty, the amazing trajectory of his life narrated in his hand written book are treasures for creating richness of rasa in a life so deprived and famished, as such.
How could we, inheritors of such cultural bounty grow so narrow?
I’m sure Hussain’s sketch book will have some scathing lines drawn, wondering!

Trying times at a trial room

Trying times at a trial room

If you are born in a country of one billion, you learn to wait for your turn for every little thing. So, waiting for my turn to use trial room was not unusual. We are born to wait. We learn to wait. We are forced to wait. We are conditioned to wait. But, this waiting was taking away all my training and patience that has gone into preparing me to be a denizen, perpetually in waiting. This was exceptional, for, it gave me a new insight into changing paradigms of relationships in a market economy, where everyone is trying to get the best out of a deal. Even from a no deal. Everybody is consuming at the cost of others, at whatever price.

Ms Saaru was in the trial room and her boy friend was selecting outfits for her. She already carried about half a dozen of these in the trial room. Every time Ms Saaru tried a new outfit, she would open the door and her boy friend would click her picture on his cell phone. This went on. After she had exhausted those outfits, her boyfriend selected a few more randomly, jumping around like a happy monkey with such electrifying swiftness that would put any smart salesperson to shame. Again, pictures were clicked and Ms Sarru’s boy friend again returned with his happily hunted apparels. Ms Saaru and her boy friend had the democratic right to select as many outfits as they pleased. I had to wait with my middle class patience that was going through testing times. I began to feel that the happy hunting boy friend sensed my unease and simmering yet unexpressed anger and picked more shirts and kurtis for her to model for his cheap cell phone camera.
If he had the democratic right to make me simmer, I wonder, why couldn’t I have the right to give him a hard slap for violating his rights as a shopper. A trial room is not meant for clicking pictures. I’m sure the lover boy knew this, but, in times when no one respects anything, shamelessness becomes a virtue. I took it because we are used to taking so much nonsense in our day to day life, that, we can swallow anything.

My rescue came from Ms Saaru. Her boyfriend brought one more shipment of clothes, but she refused to change into those. “ I am tired, …you !” Growled a tiny barely four feet ten inches petite Ms Saaru as she emerged in her old jeans and top. I gave a sadistic smile to the cell phone wielding lover boy. After all, how many changes one need to like oneself in a mirror.
He didn’t buy a single outfit she had tried, trying my patience.

Flickr/Untitled/ Annie Wants…the photographer too clicks her own pictures in expensive outfits, she cannot afford to buy, on a camera phone in the privacy of trial room!

The Middle Path

We were driving back from NH 22. Weather gods had been kind through the day, even though, a little disappointment lurched at the back of mind as the job at hand was not accomplished. It was usual chatter about the general decay around us, that we middle class love to indulge in. When my eyes saw, a man dressed in a neat white dhoti and yellow kurta, holding a white umbrella, collapse like a pack of cards on the road right before our eyes. I had never before seen a man collapse just like that. Our car was heading in the opposite direction.
For a few seconds we were quiet. Music became more pronounced in the car. We drove in shadowlands. We knew something should be done about the man. He needed help. We were also conscious of a few commitments awaiting us. Our humanity was knocking at the doors, callousness was responding. So, feebly we discussed, and came to a conclusion that we should report the matter to the traffic police on duty at the next traffic lights.
We did our bit. The traffic policeman was reluctant to move out in rains. “ The man must be drunk,” he dismissed. As though, drunks are justified to die an undignified death on road. At our insistence, he dialed some number on his walkie-talkie.
We returned. We had done our bit without checking out if the man received some help. Our conscience was flickering like those Chinese lights we put up on Diwali for decoration.
A newspaper I was associated with followed the practice of never printing unpleasant pictures of death and decay on the front page. Their philosophy was reflective of our mind set. We don’t want to deal with unpleasantness.
We compromise, we find the middle way. We like to play safe.

Flickr/on the road to heaven/ eSThER

Rhetoric on greed

At this juncture I can’t help thinking of a film I was shown by my nephew who worked for an investment bank in Wall Street. At twenty six he was able to afford an apartment in Manhattan. Yet, he claimed, he lived a dog’s life.
Now when I think of this Oliver Stone film, titled, Wall Street, that brought Oscar glory to Michael Douglas, I feel the metaphors used in the film are apt for the present scenario. The infamous Gordon Gekko, played with finesse by Douglas, a suave, manipulative, ruthless dealer who believes greed is God, personifies a financial culture that refuses to look beyond immediate gains, earned by paying any cost. Values have no place in this market. An investment culture where everything is fair as long as it books profits for the smart few.
Against Gekko’s first world charming world, that can afford more than anyone can consume under the sun, including disposable blondes, is a young ambitious man named Bud Fox ( played by Charlie Sheen) who exemplifies the third world dreams to ape Gekko’s world of surplus capital. Gekko is Bud’s idol, he can go any lengths to get into Gekko’s shoes. Gekko fans Bud’s dreams and youthful energy to expand his financial empire, which has no place for human values and bonds. Bud goes to the length of humiliating his own father, a man who has a vision and tries to protect worker’s rights in a takeover situation that Gekko is trying to manipulate by using Bud’s vulnerability.
Though, Bud too believes in Gekko’s philosophy that “ greed clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of evolutionary spirit, greed is right, greed works” and climbs the social ladder by insider dealings done at reckless speed , he gets in return what greed can offer, a luxurious life and Gekko’s ex girl friend, a blonde. Yet, in a classic manner, towards the end, he repents for his eroded values. Ironically, he is able to beat Gekko in his game by his very rules. By deceit. Bud is a creation of Gekko. He remains a shadow of Gekko, even though he attempts to crawl out of it.
Wonder, how long will Dalal Street take to crawl out of Wall Street shadows ?
After all, greed is also universal.

Each one has a Taliban

They all looked alike. De sexed is the right word. I could not differentiate for a while that there were girls too among what I thought to be a group of boys. My eyes took note of a few swollen breasts. I asked in shock, “ Are there girls too in the group?”
“ Yes,” came a flat reply. The woman who answered my query too had hid her hair under a white turban. She had a tuft of hair on her chin. In a cosmetic age, I was impressed by her courage to be herself. But, she had reached an age when genders could not be disguised. They become apparent by expanding pelvis and breasts. Girls and boys close to puberty can look so much alike, I learnt for the first time. They had tied their hair under a turban in similar fashion, their dress too was neutral to their gender. They wore genderless appearance.
I had many more things to learn that day.
I was invited by a prestigious residential school to help their teachers and students hone creative skills in writing.
After what seemed like a very impressive tour of the facilities, that included smart classes, language laboratory, an impressive library, computer lab, and a counseling room, I was left to interact with students of class twelfth. I began an informal chat about creative people and how they bring harmony and peace to life. I realized, the class had only girls. When I thought I was beginning to strike a rapport, one of the girls stood up to say what I said was all hoax. “ You cannot understand how we live, all this creativity is for free birds like you, not for us, we are jailed. We are not allowed to keep a mirror, we are forced to go for paath (chanting) at four every day, I hate God if he causes such torture, I hate my parents for leaving me in this torture cell, and I hate all teachers! ”
I was aghast, yet, impressed by her defiance. She had a lot that was begging to be expressed.
Once she removed the lid, others made me see a lot more. I was aware of my limitation as an outsider, yet I tried to lessen their pain by narrating tales of horror of living under supervision of nuns during my years of growing up. I talked of long hours of commuting for students in a metro, of many more compromises that we make in life ( I just did by concealing the name of the institution), when teachers and nuns are not there to force things down our gullet.
Yet, I was painfully aware of the fact that a girl blossoms into youth only once in her life span and she wants to feel beautiful during those years. She wants to look beautiful and would like to see it reflected in other pair of eyes. The same goes for boys. Youth wants expression in a youthful parlance, no amount of paath can substitute this need.
Why do boarding schools follow a regimen to prepare for a way of life that is never going to be of any use? Getting up at three to take bath will not be of any use to those thousand students the boarding has, it will only make them hate life and God. It will hamper germination of true spirituality. Their hatred for authority will find resonance in many other relationships. What will be their reference point beyond religion to face a complex life ahead? Why do all communities create their Talibans, why do all Talibans open their madarsas?
I felt helpless. Creativity can be used for sublimating mind, it lacks power of a bomb disposal squad.

Picture/flickr/Turban/ Arriving at the horizon

Friends of a fence

Fences have bad connotations. Almost all North Indians associate fencing with barbed wire on Indo Pak border. Across globe, people have been waging wars to remove fences. Although, on private properties, we love to maintain our fences with passion.
I too am against borders and fences, and I too have a fence around my little garden. I too protect my fence and privacy, rather fiercely.
This year something strange happened to my fence. Strangers began stopping by, more and more of them were tempted to cross the fence. The creeper on my fence blossomed into thousands of tiny white flowers that filled air with sweet aroma.
Some enquired about the name of the creeper, some asked where did I get it from and what did I do to make it blossom like that!!
The truth is, when I brought the creepers, I didn’t know they will blossom. Creepers are creepers. And, I do not know the name of their scent.
I just know this fence brings more friends. More people become aware of beauty around them. Even those, who dislike me, love my fence. It brings a smile on their face.

What an idea sirji !

Chimpu- Have you been reading Amar Chitra Katha?

Me – No, not lately, I used to, many years back. I’m too mature for that stuff

Chimpu- I want to update my knowledge on ACK.

Me- Why ?

C- I can get great idea to write a novel that may get me a Booker the third time

Me- Oh really, but how ?

C- Before that, I must also find ACK kind of comics from some other continents to give it an air of global connection, to impress people with my sweeping global knowledge.

Me- I don’t understand where is it leading?

C- Haven’t you read the Enchantress of Florence?

Me- Yes I did

C- And you call me Chimpu, couldn’t you make out the source of that book ?

Me- No no no that book is research based

C- Yes, when Sirji creates a Bhanumati ka pitara , it is called research, if a Chimpu like me writes the same stuff it will be called plagiarizing comics stuff!

Me- No, no, I think you far too simplify the thing

C- Thing, or the book ? Its not about simplification, its about being simplistic!

Me- No, no, this is blasphemy, I mean the book, it is written by one of the most widely respected authors of our times.

C- But it is a phattu tale, the kind two penny worth of kissago used to narrate night after night for phattu audiences, a piecemeal tale

Me- You mean he plagiarized your story?

C- No, why can’t you educated guys look beyond what you are told to see by others, don’t you have confidence in what you feel?

Me- I don’t want to displease you, who knows, you may become a best seller tomorrow! You may be right Chimpu! I have to keep everyone pleased, I can’t contradict big time critics, I have to live in the same waters… you know…
And then, the book does have some profound thoughts, moments…

C- A Chimpu knows better!

Bina's tattoo

When Bina came with her mother, a sickly looking undernourished girl, I thought she must be seven or eight. Gradually, her mother began disappearing from the act, leaving burden of work for the girl. She was again heavy with a child.
Often, in between her work, Bina would stare at computer screen. Questions began to pour. One fine day she said, she wanted to read and write. Her literacy lessons began at my place.
The other day I observed a tattoo on her arm. I asked, whose names are these? “ They are my brothers’, “ she said. ” But, why isn’t your name tattooed?” I was puzzled. “ If I am lost in a fair, or, some other place, I could be sent home. My brothers’ name would be known.”
This has many connotations. Her right arm is left untattooed, one day her husband’s name will be inscribed there. If she is lost, she could be found by her bother’s, or, husband’s name.
Bina’s favourite TV show- Raja ki aayegi baarat
Bina’s dream- To have a big colour TV, she likes to chop vegetables while looking at TV screen.
Why does she want to read and write? So that she can buy a big TV.
Bina has embellished her brothers’ name- Vinod, Rinku ans Sonu on Rakhi with henna.
Her brothers go to school.
Bina is in fact 13, or, around so. She looks nine.
Bina doesn’t want her name tattooed.
She doesn't feel the need to have her name engraved, anywhere.

Aural Attrition

Flamboyant, flippant, flashy film stars may have amplified their own hollowness by taking a dig at Bharat Kumar. After producing Shor, a film on growing noise pollution, Manoj Kumar proved to be much ahead of his times. He made this film in 70s, when the world was not yet assaulted by cell phone ring tones, reverse gear tones, loud, uncivilized, offensive honks, and an unprecedented surge of national love for Bhangra and Indi pop.

If by enhanced decibel, quality of sound could improve, then, bombs would turn out to be best sound devices. Unfortunately bombs produce only a sharp reaction of nerves. Even among animals. With a bombardment of sound from all quarters, we are generating only reactionary response to sound. Which, sadly, is a major sense stimuli that enhances development of intellect, if only used in right dose.

While watching Sarkar Raj, the entire duration of the film, I kept wondering who the hell created ear deafening blast in the name of background music. Why can’t film directors use right nomenclature? This untailored, uncontrolled noise couldn’t be categorized as music by any standards, background or frontal, or whatever. To my utter shock, there were over a dozen babies in the hall, making feeble protests to be rescued of their aural rape. Obviously, their protests fell on deaf ears. There was only one sound to be heard !!! Plastic sound that cannot have an organic effect!

Sound used to be sacred, a source of purity, of music, melody. When we violate and pollute sound all around us, we pollute a major part of growth, of mind, of sensibility. Even Himesh Reshamiya would agree. Sarkar Raj is no exception to the rule. Almost all films use ear deafening cacophony to get audience attention right at the start. Wonder, by film music composers, you get heard only when you scream! Singh is King did not shock, I was prepared for an aural blast. But, what happens to still in making delicate ears, babies keep whining, well…

In smaller multiplex auditoria, listening to or rather tolerating decibel blast of so called music ( background, item number or trash ), gives a nerve wracking experience. Ditto goes for restaurants, coffee shops. It’s almost impossible to get a quiet place these days. You meet friends over lunch, and shout over a mix of noises to get heard, a decent conversation is an impossibility in a room bombarded with noise blast pushed under your auditory passage by LCD screen TVs, from music players, cell phone ring tones and God forbid, if you sit close to a table occupied by a loud mouth!

Why is silence such a rarity? Like each room with TV revolution, the day is not far when we will need each house with a sound proof room revolution. How long can we abuse aural senses? What happened to quality of ears that our maker is fitting these days?

photo credit-Virtual Zovie's Photostream

Song of a bird

Which category do we humans belong to? Birds of a flock, or, the lion of a den? Singular or plural? Part of a herd or lonely hermit? What about party animals? Does it depend on the degree of one’s evolution? Or, ability to make choices! Ability to tolerate!
Crowd or solitude!
Normal is being in crowd, in company. What is normal? Opposite of abnormal. And abnormal is opposite of normal. A catch twenty two. Horns of a dilemma. What do people want? In loneliness- company, in company- loneliness!
Creative minds prefer solitude that allows them to get into their
own groove. From deep solitude erupt fountains of inspired strokes, colours, forms, notes and words that help others cope with loneliness of a crowd. For crowds, some create bill- boards, graffiti, slogans and rock shows. Their creation too requires an amazing quality of concentration. A long stretch of loneliness.
One thrives on inspired living. Inspiration could come from a distance, from solitude, from within. We may hate to be alone, in aloneness alone the best that we have inside, comes forth. In aloneness the most exciting discoveries take place. The most amazing accomplishments ( Abhinav Bindra is a recent example)!
Somehow crowds fail to drop connotations of Gujrati women running away with loot during riots, Gujjars breaking rail tracks and now chest beating women of Jammu and vituperative long nosed Kashmiris from my mind. Why do crowds bring out the animal in nice people?
And why, despite its amazing beauty and power, we detest loneliness?

When a single bird sings, it makes the sky reverberate.

picture: flickr/ autumn loneliness/ manu le manu

Heritage Potpourri

Heritage Potpourri- East and West

At Ajanta and Ellora caves, you marvel at ingenuity of frescos, their richness of colour, their perfection of technique that survived over a millennium. And then you wonder, how, within just sixty years of independence we could destroy such priceless heritage to an unrecognizable eye sore. There is more decay visible there, than art.

We may flaunt our secular flagship with pride and condemn all religious institutions, the fact remains, great Indian art and architectural wonders were preserved in their original form only in some old temples. In the name of God, at least, we care to preserve few remnants of our human glory. The glory that did not descend as a divine boon but was created by hard working anonymous, ordinary human beings. The perfection of sculptures in some of the temples did not make me feel proud of our past, it made me realize how low we have fallen from the standards of perfection we adhered to till a few hundred years back.

Forget about those loose electric wires hanging outside posh shopping addresses, shoddy leather covers in luxury trains, poor alignments and fixings, in the only certification of hope India could get in the recent past, the IT sector, present chairman NASSCOM, G Natarajan has commented, that, of the 20 lakh IT engineers, only 20 per cent are employable. And we know, we haven’t yet hit the rock bottom of not only of our inefficiency, but, our intolerance for competence.

And then I encountered a heritage of a different kind. On visiting William Randolf Hearst castle on the West Coast ( San Simeon, California) - I was surprised to observe, not a single artifact preserved in the castle was produced by the local artists or craftsman. At best, the castle was like an assembled potpourri. Hearst, the media baron had collected everything that went into making this so called castle on his visits to Europe, Asia , Middle East and Africa. Sculptures from France, doors and ceilings from Italy, tiles from Egypt, some lacquer work from Mexico and so on. Yet, the way they have preserved and present the castle to bus loads of tourists everyday is an eye opener ( you pay $27 for a visit).
I was bored and amused at seeing this vulgar nouveau riche assemblage. Bored, because the castle lacked grandeur and finesse we have seen in our forts of Rajasthan, amused- by their immaculate organizational skills. They do know how to showcase even a fake castle to perfection.
We, apparently do not have a very promising future, we are incapable of showcasing a grand past.

marriageable miseries

Marriageable miseries

Seeing a couple in their drawing room, a painting reveled its meaning. The painting showed two featureless faces, looking in opposite directions, with two empty cups of tea placed before them. There was an impression of a curtain in the background. I had seen the painting a few years back.
As I entered their house, the musty smell assaulted me. It came from everything, from all corners. On an impulse I wanted to open the windows. “ It’s pleasant outside, but, inside its stifling,” she commented sadly, as she perched on the sofa. I more than agreed. I looked at asymmetrical paintings hung all around. Then he came, dragging slippers. He added to the aching sadness of the room. They fitted perfectly into the frame. They complemented each other in sadness. It was infectious, my upbeat mood was deflated. I joined their conjugal sadness. It stuck to me like the musty smell.
Now, he began to mumble something. I looked at them and my heart sank. It sank further in an abyss of sadness. They must have been married for over two decades. What does marriage do to some people?

Kaur is Singh

Kaur is Singh

What’s there in a name ? Well, I know it sounds cliché. Repeated ad nauseam, anything uttered by Shakespeare has become cliché. The fact of the matter is, when we need to drive home a point, big names help. Like clichés.
One of my ex colleagues used to get invites addressed to her under a gender she was not born with. Poor girl was named Harneet, and her last name was Singh. So, she became Mr Harneet Singh for all practical purposes, for those who knew her only by her byline.
Recently, a friend was showing pictures of his exceptionally pretty daughter. I asked, what is she named. Tejwinder, he said. What? Tejwinder for a girl? Yes, she is Tejwinder. Doesn’t it sound a bit masculine, I said, and then kept quiet seeing the sensitivity of issue involved. As more and more girls like to drop ‘kaur’ suffixed to their names, sure, Tejwinder will be kwon as Tejwinder Singh and her gender will be misconstrued despite her very feminine demeanor.
Imagine Sophia Loren being called Yul Brianer! How it will interfere with her feminine grace!
Names too reflect cultures. Perhaps martial races wanted their women to bear some masculine traits. So, the common names. I wonder, if many men would like to take women’s name. Mr Kusum Singh, or, Mr Komal Singh are hard to come about. Why is it so easy to deprive women of what defines them- their femininity.
Most of us were made to recite Jhansi Ki Rani poem as kids, khub ladi mardani… the Rani was immortalized for her masculine qualities. How many queens do we glorify for their femininity. God forbid, if kings had feminine qualities, they would be sneered at! Generations would deride such an effeminate king.
An intellectual friend of mine hates all Meera Bai bhajans, god knows why? Wonder, her total surrender is defeatist in his macho world. Like good men should not ‘cry like girls’, and when they show cowardice, they are to be reminded, chudiyan pehan rakhi hain kya? Implying, femininity is about weakness. As though, courage is only about bashing up a goon, or, fighting wars on the border. I have known some moustache twirling, spineless generals and some real courageous women who do not don moustache.

The wise old oriental cultures talk of striking a balance between Yin and Yang, the two forces that bring harmony to the world. Our own pantheon has created the amazing concept of ardhnarishwara. I had the opportunity of seeing ardhnarishwara Ganesha in one of the temples of Tamilnadu- the god of auspiciousness with animal head and a body that gives equal place to feminine and masculine features.

Misty mountains

There is something magical about mist. It veils all the ugliness our beautiful hill stations are left with by insensitive hordes of tourists. The mist seems to forgive them all by covering up the act.
Had it not been for an assignment to shoot mountains in mist, I wouldn’t have taken the trouble. The back breaking and leg aching drive through Kalka Pinjore stretch is like mandatory purgatory before you are allowed entry into the heaven. Though, once you cross the ordeal, heaven sure awaits you.
Kasauli is at its most pristine when enwrapped in mist. Like a newly delivered baby all wrapped up in white, clean, soft sheets. A walk to upper mall in eerie silence of the woods, punctuations of a crow’s cowing, distant, faint notes of mountain flute, dew drops hung at the tip of pine needles, things making magical appearance and disappearance out of the mist…like mystery of life and death…so much packed within a few hours to transport you onto another world. Just a thin veil between what could be viewed as ugly and exhilarating.

And then a cool drizzle, breeze like whirl of a darwesh! I don’t mind getting drenched. I like to walk in rain. You smell the peculiar flavour of mist, if only you can discern it. A sudden appearance of the Sun and the inevitable rainbow!
Why is the world so ravishing!

Of death and dreams

Of death and dreams

Meanings are revealed in cusp, in transition. It was as usual a lonely evening walk. Roads were deserted, it was unusually late for evening walkers. Last shadows of the sun had disappeared. And the mind was thoughtless. From that zero, that nothingness, something sprouted. “What if I die at this very moment?”
I felt a strange sense of calm, at this finality, at this thought that came so effortlessly, without any sense of joy or loss. A peaceful surrender to life! And mind came alive. Yes, I won’t have any regrets, no complains to life, to death. I was floating in the fluid of life, its essence. I did not know how and when I reached home. Almost, in a trance.
When is the right time to die? When is the time when we realize all our dreams and aspirations? What prepares us for death? We do not know. We do know death as a liberator, the only end to the journey of life. Yet, so many misgivings for life, hence, for death.

The world is a gift shop

The world is not Archies gallery where you get things packaged for friends and loved ones, you have to pick threads and materials to create those unique gifts that only you can create. And, they need not be standardized. They remain beautiful in their rawness, in their incompleteness. How lucky we were, those of us, who didn’t have to buy friends with gifts, we just made friends, without ever requiring the stamp of material gifts. We gave time to build trust and love. The standardized teddy bear love, the standardized friendship band friends, the standardized heart shaped balloons, chocolates and what not, the standardized greeting card relations, from parents to lovers , to children, are all so easily available in stock. Well scripted for you to save time. This world of standardized relations is so cute, and so vulnerable. You begin to say sorry the way the rest of the world is doing. You begin to express love the way the rest of the world does. If you deviate, you are dropped out of the club.
Market forces may be creating a deluge, we can be smart enough to keep human relationships out of branding. These gift shop love gifts are like an hour glass model that makes the sand fill the glass in two minutes. They turn love and relationships into a cute model, a metaphor for our times. We begin to live in a world of models, model of an hour glass, model of vintage car, bullet motorcycle, model friend- model love, custom jewelry ( real jewels are for wife, mind you, this is just a shop for friends, dates and lovers) relationships without certificate, the kamchalau things for time pass relationships. The two minute business that leaves impression for an hour. And then, life steps out of a gift shop!

Akira Kurosawa

Although Rashomon was not part of his great works( released in 1950 that brought him on international scene) shown on Zee Studio, on Sundays, few images of outstanding cinema stuck to mind. The black and white films of the maestro were like classic poetry on celluloid, interspersed with mellowed notes of shakuhachi flute. The notes and images spread as softly as mist, lingering, enveloping, touching, as delicately as dew.
The bizarre violent roughness of Seven Samurai, or, delicate tale of ambiguous love of the Red Beard, or, the thriller like suspense of High and Low, for each genre, the director had a different pace and craft. No wonder, he is credited with evolving a new idiom of Japanese cinema.
For High and Low, he uses just one colour in a single scene. The strange gathering and angles used in High and Low to show mob mentality is unparalleled.
Though, the film was adapted in Hindi, it could not go beyond a thriller. It failed to touch the metaphysical aspects Kurosawa leads to, towards the end , with the suggestion of sheer visuals.
The confidence and brilliance of his cinema is awe inspiring, with moral ambiguity of its characters and humanism, almost feminine in treatment. Despite a huge cultural distance between India and Japan, in the cluttered babble of our own language cinema, visual power of Kurosawa’s films convey the truth eloquently and forcibly.
In one of the scenes, a samurai hung upside down from a tree top with a rope on the last lag of his life cries like a wounded fowl. The sun is about to rise, trees and branches appear like ghost arms. While the town with its men and warriors sleep, it is a non- descript fragile, desolate woman who dares to ease the rope to release him. Both have transcended fear, she in her desolation, he, in his brush with death. The scene is like a slice of canvas, devoid of colour, filled with amazing mix of light and shade.
In the final scene of High and Low, when the murderer and the victim face each other in a jail, their images are reflected in the image of the other. Weaving a suggestion, that the tormented lives in the tormentor and vice versa.
Kurosawa’s study of the Samurai tradition is unique, with all possible shades of humanism.

art and ashtray

Art and ashtray

Irrespective of which strata we came from, Indians used, consumed, ate, wore, and fought their wars with the accompaniment of art. From pre historic sarota( beetlenut cutter) to surahi, to medieval spears and swords, were embellished with soft delicate art. The precision of offensive and the precision of brush went hand in hand. The scale and scope of art still touches our lives. Though, the focus has shifted to finance. Art make news only in pages dedicated to finance.

So, it is exciting for the Indian artists and art lovers to see art investors mushrooming all around. Indian art has returned home glorified through Sotheby’s and Christies. The way Yoga took a detour, through American land to make its presence felt on the home turf. When F N Souza’s work goes for $ 2.8 million at Christie’s, art collectors gasp.

The moot question remains unanswered, how much of it goes to the artist? Since market forces control price and trend in art, and since investment in art shows better returns than many blue chip companies, entrepreneurs of varied shades are thinking of expanding business into art. Like it or not, in their euphoria, some gallery owners in Delhi have started printing art on every conceivable consumer item, from match boxes, coasters to ash trays. It is good to popularize art!
Only, the manner of production and sale of art by some of the houses will put Chinese assembly lines to shame! Artists are hired on contract, the gallery owner dictates public tastes, he knows what sells. So, the artist has to produce a required number of works on required themes, with required compositions within stipulated time. The works are guaranteed to be sold. The artist is taken on promotional tours and all that. The gallery decides the price tag and the artist sells. This way, artists can afford better life styles. It is a win- win situation.
When artists absorbed changing patterns of their times, sought newer ways of expressions, newer experiments came into fore. Artists and art acquired a higher pedestal by the new methods and techniques evolved to express complexity of life and mind. Orphism, cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and many more experiments and experiences came into being when artists threw new challenges on the canvas to seek newer horizons of visual expressions.
Their contribution to the art made them great, immortal and their life style- flamboyant and expensive. Dali and Picasso are the best examples of popularizing art by their unique perspectives on canvas and on life. Their art was an expression of amazing thought currents, unabashed and uncompromised. Other subsidiaries that turned art into a movement; galleries, investors, auction houses, insurers, framers, restorers and critics came later.
Are we reversing the order to write the success story of Indian art? That’s our claim to innovation. After the group of Progressive Artists, who are now rocking and shocking Sotheby’s and Christie’s, where are the artists who give a new eye, a new vision to the masses to see the world with? Where are those volatile thinkers? Where are the path breaking metaphors and idioms? Where are our Dalis and Picassos, Cezannes and Pollocks?
Where are the celebrated critics, with their penetrating, scathing observations who made or mar an artist? Great art flourishes with collective
growth in consciousness. Is life too simplified for us to inspire great art?
Or, art is another casualty of compromise!

Add one more chapter

From Stephen R Coveys to Shiv Kheras, the gurus who make millions by selling success mantras speak only the half truth. They hide the other, the inevitable side of the coin. Failure.
While all energies are focused on sharpening attributes leading to success, no one talks about skills that would help coping with failure. In their scheme of things, failure does not exist. They are marketing success.
The uncomfortable truth is, without the punctuation of failure, there is no success. Like day and night, durations vary with changing seasons, but, success and failure remain integrally entwined.
The deceit comes from the fact that success is measured by strides taken outwardly, in the world. In terms of power, position, money. The moment this strides slows down, or, comes to a halt, everything else stops. Including emotional richness of life. All that has come by way of success, slips away. Friends, relations, recognition, appreciation, confidence, at times, even family.
All that gyan honed for success leaves a large gaping hole. Grown larger when left unattended with growing success, on, how to manage failure? The hollowness, the worthlessness, the breaking up of relationships, the pain of not receiving respect and recognition and loss of self esteem! No gyan comes from success gurus to rescue!
Material success is over glamourised like sex. We were told lies about its encompassing reach, we hand over the same to our children. All of us have experienced the low that comes after the high of getting a new raise, new car, anew gadget or a new house. The hollowness of ‘what next’? Neither the success gurus nor pushy, over driven parents ever share this side of the success story with children. Nor do they prepare for failure. All efforts are centered at postponing it.
Each one gropes in the dark to manage failure and loss, in ones own way. No mantra is available on the shelf to deal with the painful, unavoidable truth of life.
Reign Over Me, a Hollywood flick deals with unspeakable pain of its protagonist who finds all trappings of life taken away by one blow of destiny. The once successful doctor tries every thing under the sun, from escapism, turning to be an alcoholic to attempting suicide and attempt to homicide. His pain may look poetic on screen, it swings between desolation to desperation. Looking for the last metaphoric straw of hope in the winds of change.
The other side of coin too gains prominence with fixation for success.

Skeptic zones

Skeptic zones

Two things happened last week in the second highest per capita income state of Haryana. Also, the state of fast growing SEZs. Where, only 86.7 girls survive, expected to attain womanhood for a hundred men.
Sarita, an ordinary woman from Rohtak, raped by two police constables, died in the office of DGP at Panchkula. She had consumed poison before meeting the DGP. She told the DGP what she had done, as, she had no hope of receiving justice from the system. Five hours were spent before her death and interview with the DGP. Nothing was done. Perhaps, her word was not important enough for attention.
Her mother too was raped and murdered, twenty years back. This forced her father to leave his ancestral village.
The Chief Minister released the logo and motto of the first women’s university in the state, BPS Mahila Vishwavidyalaya at Khanpur Kalan. ‘Empowering women with Education’, the motto was prominently displayed on the logo.
Sarita tried all that an educated, so called empowered woman could have done to get heard, despite her modest educational background.
The same day chief secretary, Dharam Veer, addressing a press conference asked the scribes to change the topic when they pestered him with queries on Sarita’s suicide. He wanted to talk about success story of SEZ.

google.com and http error

Google .com and HTTP Error

Our deep Hindu philosophy has taught us that everything has two sides. The two sides of the same coin types. So, if there is google .com that pops up with all sorts of information, there is HTTP error to balance it out.
So is with the newspapers. With their share of google .coms and HTTP errors. Well, the errors outnumber the googles. Not, that it matters. After all, google is only information, available at the click of a mouse that remains there only till the next click clicks the first one out. This does not signify wisdom. After all, in the business of the news paper, that is used for wrapping up samosas and cleaning baby shit the next day, who requires the wise? They could only be a burden. What if they refuse to disappear with the click of the mouse, the system would fall into deep trouble.
In the world of googles and https, every one paves way for every one else, it’s a different matter that the hidden bugs, at times, eat up the entire work. Like termites, without even making a click sound.

Like the http error landscape of the computer, the people with this character look like an empty screen, with a mind that resounds with hollowness. Since there is a strong echo in the sounds produced by hollowness, all the http errors walk with a swagger that reflects the bloated contours of their hollowness. With the hair of a porcupine, the http error completes the picture of ignorance personified, glorified and deified.
and, we get to see them everyday, spoiling mornings, in print.