Infidelity

He had vainly thought that he would never be able to forget her. But he did, sooner than he had expected. The fire of the time charred the statue, which he once admired and worshiped, to cinders and fanned away the dust in air. It happened quietly, without any ceremony, as if nothing significant happened.

Was his turn near too? Will he get the same mute death?  Will be forgotten by her, by all? Won't he be spared? No; sooner or later he will be dead forever, like footprints on seashore, forgotten, as if he never existed! He was revolted by this thought. Death is terrible because no matter how common it is, it is still unbelievable. He decided to resurrect her again. He closed his eyes and tried to draw her from the dark recesses of memories. He put both his palms on his ears and pressed hard not to get distracted by the noise of silence. He wanted to her her but her voice was lost. He kept on trying there till he grew tired of it. How long could one keep his hands pressed against his ears? Soon he gave up.

Life seldom gives a luxury to sit idle and revel in nostalgia. Having to dig deep in time to see her made it hard for him to do it often. Time had stolen the intense smell of the mustard long back, but till recently he was haunted by the echo of those promises that he had made in those melting moments. Now even her love-making whispers were sinking in silence. All that remained was a faint memory of the tortured nights that brought them together. Time was healing him, and infidelity looked to be inevitable.


Musical Mood - Kabhi tanhaaiyon mein (Hamaari yaad aayegi) - Mubarak Begum

Of prose and poetry

"If I had a message to convey, why would I make a movie? I would have gone to post-office."

- Naseeruddin Shah to a journalist who asked what message he was trying to send in his new film Yun Hota To Kya Hota.

This, I think, was a very suitable reply to such a stupid question. I wonder how can a journalist dare to face an actor like Naseer with such a glaringly pathetic (mis)understanding of movies and art! And I pity people like Naseer who have to put up with such jackasses.

People with towering IQs are likely to conclude, logically and naively, that movies don't carry any messages. Isn't what Naseer is saying?

No. I believe Naseer is not saying that. What he precisely wants to say is that if he had any message to say in words, he would have said that in words. He would have written it and published it somewhere. He would not have done anything else in that case.
But he chose to make a movie because the matter he wanted to send across could be achieved in the best possible manner by the medium of cinema only. He wanted to give a cinematic experience to people and that can be accomplished by no other means but movies.

Artists know the fundamental fact that there must be a consistency between the content and the form in a work of art. Also, it is the content(what is to be said) that chooses the form(how it is said) for its best representation and not the other way round. (courtesy Akshaya)
They master a form or two of their preference but they don't have confusion about its inherent limitations. Ustad Bismillah Khan, being a maestro, must have been aware that there are moods that can not be created by the use of Shehnai.
They don't play the nonsense and snobbish 'let's write a Haiku' games. And if they do, they don't take themselves very seriously.
I think they know very well what to write in prose and what in poetry, when to make a play and when a movie. Of course there are people in world who say 'let's make a movie' and make it. But we are talking about artists here and not businessmen. And I also admit, though not unreservedly, that an artist can have a business perspective too. But that becomes another case.

Let's come back to the question. On what basis do you think Tagore decided whether he should write a novel or a poem, or he should make a painting, or he should compose a piece of music to give expression to his feelings and thoughts? Did he decide that arbitrarily? Quite unlikely a case as per my understanding. It would be like deciding a name for the kid before his/her gender is known. Tagore wrote Geetanjali to express a thought that was essentially poetic in nature. He couldn't choose any other form because only poetry can carry the beauty, with all its subtlety and fragility, without staining it, without robbing of its dignity. He didn't write Gora, for example, in verse. Similarly, Kant couldn't write Critique for Pure Reason in verse and Descartes couldn't expound his Cartesian Coordinate System through the ethereal media of poetry. Art doesn't tolerate reason. It's hands are too feathery to lift the weight of heavy thoughts. A treatise of philosophy can only be written in a well-structured prose. To make sense, the manner must mind the matter. You can't do anything in any way you fancy without being frivolous about it. And this goes even beyond the realm of art. Can you swear someone musically without looking ridiculous?

There might be some areas of intersection between forms and contents. I don't deny that. It does happen that sometimes listening to music endenders an array of pictures in our mind. And sometimes a painting seems to contain a story in it. Arguably, there exists a hierarchy of forms as well. But I don't intend to go into the technicalities here. Nor I want to feel pedantic or puritanical. I am not feeling stimulated enough to commit glaring claims without even having a conviction in them. But the fundamental remains the same.

Those who understood what I said above would surely understand this - If I like Lata Mangeshkar and feel that she is the best, and if someone challenges my opinion or taste, then I would never argue a single word in order to prove that she is the best . I will just keep on listening to her.

Also, I refuse to accept that somebody was a great musician because his music was so powerful that it mobilized the masses against war and consequently, at the face of such massive a protest, the government of USA had to withdraw its troops from Vietnam.

song of life

Life is made up of little experiences. Sometimes insignificant things teach us memorable lessons and give us important insights. Small events sometimes create big waves in our mind. We hardly ever stop reading and learning, even when we are at leisure, even when we are traveling. We keep on reading places and people. But sometimes it also happens that we read everything entirely wrong.

There are thousands of people who travel by Mumbai local everyday for their bread and butter. Or for mere bread only. This post is about one of hapless them.

This man was not particularly remarkable. He was just ordinary, not even very ordinary. I would hardly ever notice people like him. Perhaps no one would. But he climbed on and stood in front of me in the compartment. I didn't even find him worth ignoring. With a cursory glance I scanned his frail figure. Short, thin, dark-complexioned, mid-aged, he looked emaciated and worn-out by ages of drudgery and hardships. He carried a black hand-bag, like thousands of those who earn Rs. 2500 per month carry with them. His collar-bones peeped out from his dirty cream-colored shirt. I guessed he was unbearably feeble. One push and he went flying down the train. I wondered why it was so difficult to respect people like him unless they do something to prove themselves, and keep doing so before we forget. Their physical appearance often evoke a sickening sense of superiority or indifference in you, or contempt in other circumstances. I tried to imagine how dreadful it was to be like him, poor and ugly; like being a miserable bug, a body filled with pulp of insignificance. The whole world would seem unimaginably depressing and indescribably hopeless. Suddenly he turned his head and caught me staring at him. His eyes seemed grotesquely large through the thick glasses he wore. I started looking elsewhere. Perhaps he saw my face that was contorted with revulsion. You can't look in someone's eyes while thinking that about him.

I kept on thinking about this man. I imagined what would happen after he reached his place. Many dismal, dreary pictures floated over my eyes. I saw him walking through smoke and stench, avoiding the sight of goats being skinned and hanged by hooks, and mongrels with hungry dark eyes loitering about, negotiating pigs in the narrow streets and then stepping on the broken ‘S’ of bricks outside his door to save his shoes from getting muddy. I saw his dark, gloomy, stuffy place, the dimly lit bulb overhead, and the continuous buzz of house-flies. A wailing reminder over the cup of tea to get the umbrella repaired before the impending onslaught of Monsoon. I wondered if she loved him. It was a queer thought. I was not sure. Had anyone ever loved him? May be. But he was too poor to be loved, and too ugly to ever charm anyone. It is not easy for anyone to see an ugly man’s love; and not to mention, it is slightly embarrassing too. Love would surely feel awkward to be associated with a guy like him. Imagine a love story with ugly characters. Amusing idea isnt? After all it hardly mattered. A poor man’s love is as good as his hatred. You don’t take any of these things very seriously.

I kept on brooding till I started to feel uneasy; choked by my own thoughts. In a very short time I had taken too deep a plunge in his world and it was high time I came out of it. It was horrible to be there. For the first time I felt a gnawing sense of pity growing inside me for the poor man. What a wretched life he was living! No joy, no grace; I realized that the cross he was carrying on his feeble shoulders was too heavy for him, perhaps heavier than that of many of us. And he was damned to carry the burden of his ridiculous life with utmost seriousness. For a moment my heart went out for him.

Not many people were left in the compartment by the time I looked around again. I started looking at the scene outside, at running trees and houses, at grey sky and brown rails, to distract my mind. I was pained by his thoughts. And all of a sudden I heard his voice. I turned and found him singing, not loudly but his voice was certainly louder than a timid humming. It might sound ridiculous but I admit I was amazed to see that. It took me some time to believe what I saw. He was singing for God’s sake! What the hell was happening! I never see anyone (except beggers of course) singing in train. And of all the people him! Did he have any reason, any right to sing in the setting his life had placed him in? Was he not afraid of those troubles that chased him and those that waited for him at the next corner? Amnesia? Insanity? Why that insolent defiance?

All these thoughts passed my mind in a flash. Oblivious of my state of surprise, he behaved as if he was alone there, as if no one was there to see him, as if he was away from the reach of all those troubles that were instead troubling me. I admit I found myself dumbfounded for a while. All my sullen and twisted thoughts and here was the truth, right before me, singing in cheerful abandonment. Perhaps too plain and simple for my imagination. Perhaps far beyond its range.

There have been moments in my life when I give up my pursuit of analysis and allow myself to revel in my sweet defeat. It feels nice to be wrong sometimes. How pleasant and delightful it was to see him singing, with all his joy and grace! I felt so pleased to see that. What a blissful sense of relief it was! As if someone suddenly acquited me of some unknown guilt, released me from a painful burden. For a forgettable but overwhelming second I felt like believing in God. I know that the ecstasy of dreams can not be shared with others. There is nothing to share as such. Nothing happened actually. Nothing had changed anywhere but suddenly everything seemed so refreshing. It was like reinventing the meaning of life. It was like realizing that the most beautiful and most invaluable things in life are amply scattered around us, to be felt and enjoyed, absolutely for free. And no one is as poor as we imagine. It was not that I didn't know all this before. I surely did. But it is very easy to forget things like that.

I felt a growing sense of gratitude in me for the man who made that tune, to all who make music, to all artists who spread and preserve what is human in us so diligently through years of hard work. I saw the magic of music, its reach, its power, perhaps more clearly than ever. For some time this realization hung heavy in my mind that everyone in this world is equally happy or unhappy. Most of the differences between us are illusory. All of us are tormented by similar Sisyphean troubles and rescued by the divine Veena of Saraswati.
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a tiny boat in the stormy sea

I am beginning to see our lives as tiny boats tossing and turning in an infinitely stretched ocean in a dark, cloudy, stormy night. The mighty waves push and hurl our boats here and there and all that we are left to do is merely to come to terms with the vagaries of the wind and accept it as the reality of our lives. Why does reality have to throw us apart everytime it lets us meet? And why do we meet if we invariably have to be thrown apart by a sadistic stroke of reality? I helplessly see my boat being taken away. I look at my friend boats with longing eyes and slowly they become smaller and smaller in my eyes. Long before late they'd fade in the mist and vanish in the vastness of the ocean. Again I'd be left alone with the continually shrinking memory of past in the cold, dark, tempestuous future. Again I'll look for other boats in order to steal some moments of warmth in the eternity of icy isolation. And again I'll take out my two cold palms and rub them to get some warmth out of them.