The Keatsian Cat

Skeletons on the Tin Roof.

2012-01-14T17:30:00.000+05:30

The afternoon sun was unrelenting, and the breeze was dry enough to make one feel like a hot oven. Bach's music traced its meandering way to a lovely counterpoint and the harpsichord was twinkling notes in obvious pleasure, laced with a pinch and a devilish laugh. His eyes felt hot and moist, his feet numb and his limbs in a state of uneasy fluidity, making him squirm. Then came in the coda like a shot of caffeine - a power stream that injected a strange sense of feeling and life not into his body, but his soul.

There it was - the whirring record coming to an end, Bach's overplayed and misunderstood Brandenburg Concerto No.5 with its glorious harpsichord cadenza. The record would have to be turned to listen to the rest of the Concerto, but he was no frame of mind to hear anymore. There comes a stage in a person's life when intangibility spells ruin, for tangibility is that connecting link for the Communion with the Supreme. It was the same for him - the music reverberated in the air, cerebral and aloof. He slowly moved from the comfort of the silken couch and reached for the stained coffee mug. It was late afternoon and it would have been apt time for a badly needed siesta. With a certain feline grace he stretched, heard his bones creek and waltzed his way to his music studio.

"Tick tock tick tock tick" - the sound slowly permeated his hearing. The metronome was losing its winding and slowing down in the most irritating arrhythmic manner. "Life too loses its winding and turns into this frantic yet ironically slow disintegration to nothingness", thought he. Perhaps Leticia had forgotten to stop the mechanical metronome after one of her random practice sessions. The loose bow hair on the stool, the unpacked cake of dusted rosin were all proof of his assumption. Her relationship with the violin had baffled him for long. She lived with him, as an equal partner, his wife, yet he still could not fathom a good lot of her habits. She practiced with the same kind of probability one could attribute a cat to jump in or out of the cat flap and tread on four paws softly. Her feline unpredictability enchanted and allured him just as it disturbed him unconsciously. He even failed to understand what she practiced each time for he hardly heard her. Yet for that one precious time he had seen her put the violin under her chin, the sheer volume of tone she released had startled him. Even as he was immersed in thought, he thought he saw a strange sight. Leticia was still in the same studio, violin in hand, silently clutching it in her hands.

He approached her to plant a kiss on her neck. Her figure, draped in the richness of scarlet silk was irresistible. She had her quirks about herself. The secluded studio room had been lit with soft lamps despite the harsh afternoon sunlight, which she had shut out by means of her favourite velvet curtain drape. He could not understand her hatred of sunlight permeating the studio room. When asked, her stock answer was a mysterious, seductive smile that put the rest to rest. As he brushed away the curls on her neck, she started. He, her husband, was an intruder at this moment. For her, this was her private time with her lover, the violin. She turned back with slow movements, her eyes glaring with fire. He struggled to analyse whether he was welcomed or abhorred at this instant. It did not take him much longer to understand that it was a mixture of both.

"You came to practice too, didn't you?" she asked. He nodded and added surprisingly "Also Leti, to converse with my muse." Her full lips broke into a smile. She knew, she said reassuringly and electrified the air with a soft nuzzle on his hand. She initiated conversations in her own style, which made talking to her a refreshing change after the mundanity of everyday talk.

"Duarte", she whispered, intoning her favourite pet name for him, " it is the touch that matters. That is what we long for. You think I practice, I think you practice. Don't we both know that we are deluding ourselves?". Before the question was over, he was tightening his favourite silver crown bow after pricing it out of its case. It had lain there, in plush purple for too long now. She turned away, not being able to conceal a wide smile. It was her dream, as was his - this moment, when their music would unite them.

A deep voice penetrated the studio. It was Duarte at his musical best, saying "Leti, what about some viola and violin interplay for today?". His sound had never sounded exceptional to her till this moment, when its baritone virility tingled her spine. "Madame." His immaculately articulated French 'madame' was the window to a elegant soiree of yore. She instinctively did a small curtsy and offered, "Monsieur, je ne sais pas vraiment, mais...si'l te plait, on pourrit essayer le duo de Mozart. Il est trop belle, et pas si difficile."

She had only seen the viola, never his viola. The difference was huge. An instrument without the master is just a wonderful piece of craftsmanship with the master soul of maker waiting for expression. Many a time has it been said that the salt of the player can be distinguished the instant the instrument in under the chin. If hers was a sheer intimacy with her violin when she held it, his was regal arrogance - that of one who had an equal say in the deal. They warmed up, brushing open strings and smiling at each other before reaching for the score stashed away in the beautiful shelves. They stood together at the high stool, violin and viola tucked under the arm, leafing through the ancient edition of the Duos till settling to pull out the solo parts. They took the slim sheets, signed boldly with her name on top and with fading pencil marking and laid them on the wooden stands. She had just started to sight read the music silently when he whispered to her, "Leti, let the spontaneity flow."

She looked up and met his eyes gleaming brown in the light of the lamp. A certain fear went through her. "Duarte, je....ne sais pas..weisst du, ich bin nicht so sicher!! Ich will's erst durchspielen." In her jumbled state of mind, various tongues also tumbled out, French, German and what not. He however just spoke the language of gentle assurance and kissed her lightly on the cheek and continued, "Let go of the fear. Let us hear all the false notes that are going to re-interpret this little duo." His chuckle enlivened her face, which was suddenly flushed with colour. She nodded with a lop-sided smile.

The Duo was not the greatest piece of music they had come across and studied. It was not even remotely technically insurmountable. Yet there was something about the piece that threw a challenge, and it was a challenge that only a genius could place hidden so subtly - so purely Mozartian. They struck three short strokes of the bow in the air before beginning in unison. It was an unspoken pact that they would both play to the very end of the short Stück as they called it and that they did, with effortless page turns and flourishes. The false notes were winked over, the missed notes were made up with a hum and as the final theme and variations turned in, the bow strokes fell on the strings like caresses on a maiden's skin. With gentle nudges and parting sighs, they played the final chords in unison and let themselves be enveloped with the reverberation of the strings.

They sat, as though exhausted and smiled at each other. Music hung around them, heavier than the drapes yet simultaneously lighter than the soul. This little piece had united them, made them one and the same. He slowly came to words, "Leti, this was spontaneity. Look how precious its gifts are."

"Oui, monsieur. They are unbelievable. Incroyable", muttered she, not yet out of her reverie. It had lightened the burden of her being. She slowly got up to her feet. "Duarte, in a while, we should be having a partner to join us for Mozart's Divertimento."

He smiled, and just asked in a plaintive voice, "Edmundo?"

The thought of his former rival, whether in jest or in earnst brought up a sense of anger.

Her curls flew in all directions as she laughed wildly. "We could call him so."

He was speechless till he recovered himself with wide eyes. Laying the viola on the couch, he encircled her. She turned and nuzzled his ear and slowly spoke, "Duarte, I told you, it is touch that electrifies. For us, our finger tips are the most sensitive parts of our physical self. We release so much energy with a touch."

He drew back the curtain. Evening was slowly setting in with pink and lilac hues. As they moved out of the studio to brew a mug of coffee, she tugged at his collar. "I want to hear Bach." It was imperative. The second side of the unplayed record found voice now.

Whirls of coffee steam were wafting into the air when a tumbler was heard tumbling down in the kitchen. Passion which is the driving force of all art had taken the upper hand. In a few minutes, humour which lightens the weight of the thought had knocked in.

"Duarte, that harpsichord sounds like two skeletons copulating on a tin roof." said she giggling, referring to a famous quip of the English conductor, Beecham.

"Leti, what else do you think we are doing?"

"Two souls on the kitchen slab."

Finis.

Der Wohltempierte Kaktus

2012-01-06T15:30:00.000+05:30

Es gab viel zu erzaehlen, wie immer.
Mein Herz schlug und ich wusste nicht mehr -
Was, wo und wichtiger - Wohin.

Es fing an.
Ein grosser Chaos aus Licht und Ton.
,,Wer bin ich?" fragte ich.
Ich hoerte nur ein riesiges Echo.

Das war das Ende des gebahten Weges fuer mich.
Lebenlang dachte ich, dass er der Richtige war.
Nein, ER nicht, der Weg war auch nicht.

Dann kam Licht, ein Teil des Chaoses.
Als Teil war es definiert und strahlend.
Ich hoerte den Ton auch - klar und deutlich.

Was verstande ich? Mischung geht nie.
Man mischt den Kaktus und Klavier nie.

Daraus kommt der wohltempierte Kaktus.

Ja wohl, und wie?

Darueber sprechen wir doch spaeter!

Es reicht, dass wir alle Menschen sind.

Und jetzt? Die neunte Symphonie?

Genau.
Wiederhoeren!

On Celebrating Christ's Mass.

2011-12-25T16:15:00.000+05:30

Memory and the power to memorise and encapsulate remains one of the few things man can be proud of. Of the myriad ways in which people memorise, the one that has intrigued me the most and has strangely been endowed to me is olfactory memory - memories are small snippets of smell.

So, when Christmas is around the corner, I can smell it in the air. It smells of freshness, of richness and a beautiful cold warmth. It sounds queer to call the cold "warm", but that is what makes Christmas special to me. In the sweltering heat of the town where I reside, I can feel the snow flakes touch my hand and feel the chill in the air, which is thankfully not imaginary, but as close to reality as it gets. It has never meant sleeping at church, nor has it meant a clueless turkey with legs up on the table, yet my memory of Christmas is almost always associated with those movies about the Passion of Christ that used to take up airtime on Christmas Eve years ago. For some reason, it used to disturb me so terribly, I would fake reasons not to watch it.

Times have changed, my beliefs remain the same, and sitting to watch a movie adaptation of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" for Christmas brunch was as neat a Christmas message as anything could get. A Merry Christmas, folks! There's the good spirit still, though I have sorely missed the spirit in the air this year. IT has been a dull, monotonous stagnation in the air, yet Christmas pudding and a glass of wine to raise a toast to is sublime.

What then?

2011-12-07T00:07:00.001+05:30

Lost Peace.

Terza rima eludes you in times of peace,

Some martial tempo takes its place instead-

Life is abuzz with a thousand madden'd bees,

I know in this frenzy though, no sleep nor bed.

Imagination.

I'd like to let you know that my elbow hurts,

Not because I leaped for the orange ball,

But it is just that imagination teasingly flirts;

To make puppets ghosts real in the ghost hall.

Longing.

My love, longing is when I lose myself,

Can I write further? It grips me again,

I know I am in a pathetic state sans help,

Lest you and I be one in our little den.

Flight.

The roads stretch, lined with first-class perverts,

Our home town boasts of them with real elan!

Eyes turn, mine own are in lost in flights of birds,

Oh, where it but the streets of strange Milan!

Despair.

Hungry crows feasting on a lifeless pup.

A helpless mother dog sadly turns away.

A pregnant dog stares at food in vain.

Ye, man! I'm ashamed.

Of my helplessness.

I'm frightfully stripped bare

Of that what I need the most -

Power.

Another chain of despair.

Cat's Purr

2011-11-02T20:04:00.002+05:30

There is a lot to ponder upon, a lot to think and muse, and yet lot more to write. A state of dilemma not unknown to people who juggle, it confuses and comforts the brain. Bronte's Jane Eyre brings with it the hazy glow of a candle that envelopes domestic peace while a chilly wind howls outside. The rain drizzles nonchalantly, the cold bites into my bones - dreams of peace, love and soft kisses drift along, making day night.

"My fairy!", cries Edward Fairfax-Rochester; Jane demurely smiles. "My little kitten", hear I, I contently purr.

A cat's life would be bliss. Just to enjoy the cold milk and fresh fish and the silken lap of a mistress or the bristly cheek of a master and then to be free - a wanderer in a land of no belonging.

Parchments of Thirst and Lust.

2011-10-13T11:34:00.000+05:30

The ancient Egyptian rolls his papyrus, closing shop,
Setting his thoughts with the glowing sun in the west -
The Pharaoh sees the dancing girls execute a drop.

Times ancient sometimes are the backgrounds best,
To speak of things most primal and sharply instinctive -
Such as thirst and lust in a time of zealously undying zest.

______________________________________________________________________

Parchments roll, rolled by habit and force,
Our minds roll by the very same dearth
Of habit, force and a powerful dose.

With slow magic is unveiled the path -
Man reaches out to the empty pitcher,
And then to the woman to quell the hearth.

THIRST

I thirst, for what I know not precisely.
It may be for that elusive sprout of water,
Of love, but of those I desire the most,
I know Wisdom is what I pray for.

Laboured rimes and metres mean naught.
They repel just as do fake smiles and laughter.
For a lifetime then must I be sombre -
A child destined to everlasting thirst,
And the shroud of a moonless night.

LUST

I risk saying "I lust", lest people read connotations carnal.
Not that people mean anything to me any longer.
Poetry they say is seamless, uninterrupted sweet song.
It is also the pain of the soul, the ache and the gloom.

We crave, we lust after what I know, very precisely.
"Get a life" seems meaningful after the bleak end of time.

Banalities excluded, la vita e bella, amici.
Despondency is apt fodder for entwined dreadlocks.
A juvenile Mozartian symphony calls from afar,
The calls of those nearer are that of a child next door.

The Sun beats down hard this afternoon as always,
The Cacti stay unmoved - a poem in stoicism.

I am here, moved - far away from the quiet crowd.
Je veux vivre! If Juliet spake something true,
'Twas this.

Realisation Hits!

2011-10-08T10:45:00.002+05:30

I have been a person happier for the last couple of weeks. There has been a general epiphany of sorts; the realisation that the "I" in me was as strong as ever.

People have taken a backseat, laughter has the front gear and Life as such is a rollercoaster ride that is softly thrilling me with its twists and turns.
Music is back to dominating my thoughts, Literature is gaining more prominence and I am breathing more easily.
Up there, God in Heaven smiles and I smile too. A cute relationship has budded and taken larger proportions than I thought it could.
I thought getting up a little late in the morning was a sin. I think when Mr. Wolf says "It is half-past six", it is still okay to catch another two hours of good sleep.
The "I" in my spirit now says "Get lost" to other nasty people in the world. The realisation was not just all the happy things that were listed above, it also included a dim realisation that more than half the Earth is populated by mentally sick creatures. The kick in that realisation was positive. It asked me to simply ask these people to go climb a tree and suck their little finger.
Mozart and his music came along with a few notes for me. They almost always get out of tune thanks to their precision work.
Bach got me a few mathematical rhymes that remind me of my grandfather. To wake up thinking "sin tan cot" and to slowly rub your eyes in hope that would rub the dust off memory is to remember the man who painstakingly taught you all this even when you were just a little better than a dunce.
And last, but not the least, when your cat tears your books but then meows for a comfortable nap on your lap, you know you can get away with anything with a little bit of that charm.
Life then, is charming.
*Smiles*

Agonised fever

2011-09-20T15:08:00.001+05:30

There is many a time when all one can do is to sit back and observe. Observations such as these, in times of despair and dejection tend to be laced with chagrin and black humour that colour those trepid smiles blacker still. Tears that streak chubby cheeks caress them with a fondness akin to that of two friends setting their eyes upon each other after parting. It has been a while since Shostokovich's haunting Violin Concerto has set the background with agonised musings.
Martini's 'Plaisir d'amour' is what I would have preferred to hear, yet there is the need to reconnect. I have run away from Shostokovich's music just as I keep that distance from Eliot's poetry. There is a sense of reality - the truth that prevails and triumphs; the truth that dreamers and lovers are scared to confront. But lies have to be peeled off, just like the round-necked gown has to fall to the ground when your fantasy shatters. I have managed to hear a good part of the first movement of the Shostokovich Concerto, and I feel a strange urge to pull out the score and relearn Bach's Partita in D minor, with its reverberating haunting structure.
All the same, modernity strips the solitude of the Being. Isolation is what I seek, but the mobile buzzes, with its share of short messages, that rip the soul of the most heartfelt messages.
Handel's "Waft her, angels, through the skies" is playing for the post-lunch session of writing and this is no exercise in pretty writing. Instead it is an exercise in purging the soul clear of torment and worries, something that writing takes as a first step, to be followed by a session of practice on the violin - the final freeing of trapped ruminations.

To be vented anger upon is not pleasant, but when it becomes a way of life, we tend to accept it as normal. When he started as an exception, I was exhilarated. Yet he is human - he is not devoid of anger. I am human - I am not devoid of fantasical expectations. The weather plays cruel - it is soft, it is cool - the one that I would have loved to have while out at the beach. Yet, I'm called a fisherwoman if I voice my desire. If he is caught up, this becomes inconsequential. I do not feel comfortable at the thought of accompanying him to the beach again in the near future. I would rather sit and practice my fingers out and learn to love what has loved me since the time I was a child. Yes, Masefield's Sea Fever. To feel that joy, to breathe the sea air, to be one with the waves someday, when I am floated out onto the wide ocean, where I shall rest in peace. Amen.

Dormancy

2011-08-06T18:14:00.000+05:30

Dormancy

Sleep

Hibernation

Withered Love

Awakened Self

Self Realisation

Renenwed Love

Fulfilment

Soft kisses

Four letters

Duck feathers

Peace of mind

Dormancy returns.

Hated When Hating.

2011-06-16T13:04:00.000+05:30

To just You. You should know who you are.

I spewed Hatred,
Knowing and believing
That I was loved.

But why is this Love
So fleeting?
It overwhelms in a kiss,
Sublimates in a hug
And is consumated when
The eyes meet.

After that?
It is non-existant almost.
There is a phone call,
There is the IM and
My obsessive SMS.

But where is the Love?

When I sit here scorned
Not being spoken to,
Bored and broken,
Where the hell are you?

I know you are at the funeral,
But in my distress to hold on to
Something, but preferably You,
I forget that. I wholly forget.

I am sorry. Whatever happens,
It is my fault. It has been so.
Always.

You will continue to hurt,
I will continue to endure.

If there comes a day you
Understand the longings
And fierce insecurites
That haunt me, I am
Sure it will be only
At my deathbed.

Learn it at least then,
What I needed the most.

I am not the typical one you'd find-
The non-obsessive, ratty, random
Long haired native girl.

The blood that flows here is,
Mightily different, as I am.
I am obsessive, planned
And not very often sane.

If you appreciate me as you
Do love me,
Wouldn't I not feel complete?

Wouldn't this just be,
A heaven on Earth?

Hatred

2011-06-04T23:49:00.000+05:30

I hate.
Myself.
The first thing that being.
I hate almost everything
That makes me who
I love to or rather,
Loved to call,
Me.

I'm obsessive.
Hey du, don't deny.
You were right.
The German Rail Pass
Is booked admist
Flowing tears.

Bleh you.
You are that idiot.
Who stole everything
And left me like a stump.
Withered.
I'm lost.
I'm ............................................

-- :) --

2011-05-28T12:26:00.000+05:30

The smiley in a heading
Is not so normal.
Unusual and improper
For my aesthetics.
Yet it smiles.
That is proper :D

One of my favourite records of the Bruch Violinkonzert is playing on the ancient Sony CD-player. Maxim Vengerov's fine playing and interpretation of the Andante is slowing giving me back memories of the great dreams and aspirations now lying in the back burner.

The allegro energico throws up faint memories of the struggle with the G-major scale exercises and octaves. Who cares now? The sheet music lies in dust, Tiger lies in his case, sans string, sans a voice. But out of this, there still lurks optimisim, that I would not have to play ribs and rabs and tell my child "You know, when I was young, I could play that piece so well."

For now there is an exam staring at me in the face. There's Shakespeare's Tempest and Shaw's Caeser and Cleopatra and a few poems from an anthology to be skimmed through. In the meanwhile, the record has not paused for me. The slow string crossing of the Mendelssohn cadenza is building up momentum and working itself into a beautiful pace before dashing into frenzy.

Somewhere, I know that my formula for happiness has to remain what it was - my music. What comes along is a bonus, perhaps - to be enjoyed when the bee buzzes.

The andante of the Mendelssohn now plays. Memories rush in of daddy playing this for me. I wish. I wish fervently that I could rush back to those years. Torment and turmoil filled, but with music pristine blessed were they. Just to feel that purity of thought when laying the bow on the strings! I so wish. I wish. I wish.

Trash formulas.

2011-05-08T14:52:00.002+05:30

Fairytales and princesses.
Exist not. But for the mad.
Crazy people don't know.
That they are crazy. Sad.

You promised me.
That I'd be kept.
Like a princess.
Perhaps the vain in me.
Thought of the palaces.
The ballrooms. The chandelier.
The coaches. The gowns.
The soft silk and your touch.

Mistaken. Being one is.
Simple. Be the stereotyed.
Begger. Bereft of Pride.
Joy. Self and Self worth.

Did you know. The beggar.
On the street. Seeking.
Alms - He has them all.

I am the poorer.
Poorer in soul.
Richer in money.
Richer in tears.
Laden with knowledge.
Rotten on the stump.
That I will soon be.
Reduced to.

Write an eulogy when.
I'm gone to the stars.

When my voice.
Apparently coarse.
Seems near yet far.
When the irritating
Tone of the phone.
Heralds the SMS.
That once made me.
Obsessive.

Tell the world.
With my consent.
That I was a crazy.
Mad. Obsessive.
Pig.

Once I was about you.
Now its about this.

Finis.

Formula for writing.
Trash. As was this.
Watch. Depressing.
Films.

:P :P :P

A to Zzz.

2011-05-08T14:45:00.000+05:30

A. Acceptance. Anomaly. Axe. An End.
Birth. Bud. Blossom. Burns.Betrayal. Burial.
Children. Cow.Carnality. Coronation.Coffin.
Desperation. Doubt. Despair. Despondent. Death.
Existence. Existentialism. Existent. Exit. Eternal.
Fear. Futility. Fragility. Freedom. Fright. Flight.
Give. Given. Goats. Gown. Guest artist. Goes.
Head. Hell. Honour. Hostility. Humility. Heaven.
I.Igloo. Ice. Iceman.Ice cream. Icing. Ice death.
Jealousy. Jack and Jill. Jupiter. Jaundice. Jail.
Ki. Kalium. Key. Kosmos. Knife. Kill. Killed.
Life. Living. Live. Lively. Loaf. Lovely. Love.
Mother. Minutes. Misery. Moths. Moments.Me.
Nonsense. Nimble. Nothing. Nothingness.Nullity.
O. Okay. Orange. Otter. Orgasm. Oh. Ooooh.
Pride.. Pester. Pestered. Pesticide. Problem. Poof.
Quire. Quair. Quest. Question. Que'est c'est?
Rat. Row. Red. Rubble. Ruffle. Robber. Robbed.
S. Saw. Sorry. Sex. Sleep. Swat. Sad. Sadist.
Torment. Torture. Tail. Tossed. Tame. Tamed.
Umbrella. Ufff. Ubiquitous. Unicorn. Utilitarianism.
Vendetta. Venom. Voluptuous. Vengence. Via.
Water. Why? What? Which? Witch. Wither?
Xenon. Xenophobia. X for ex. Xeric. Xanthodont.
Y.Y for why. Yacht. Yo yo.Yak. Youth. Youthful.
Z. Zorro. Zebra. Zoo. Zombie. Z-axis. Zzzzzzzzzz.

Knowing and Not Knowing..

2011-04-22T00:33:00.000+05:30

Of the two, I know not which I prefer :
To know, or not to know.

There is so much about me, that you
In your calm naivete will never know.
There is much more inside me, that I
In my learned ignorance like to ignore.

I trusted you to be truthful,
To tell me every little inch
And corner of you and me.
To tell me. That was it.
Not to people,
Not to friends,
Not to strangers,
Not the least
To the air,
Which at least, faithful,
Told me back.

Did you know I pray to the winds?
To carry my little message of love,
When it finally blows near your ears?
To tell you how much this heart loves,
yearns to be loved still and to love more.
I so wish that the little fallen leaf
Was born for a sacred mission-
To fall at your feet from my hand,
Prostrate the way I lie at yours,
Being yours, enraptured in capture.

I forgive. I have forgotten.
But this is proof. That I haven't.
I wish to. I want to. I have to.

Because. I love you.

PS : Inspiration from Congreve, for want of placing blame on someone :D

April Fool's Morning

2011-04-01T10:03:00.000+05:30

The first day of April - the sweet showers aren't here yet. Damp heat and wet hopes.

The exam timetable is written in bold on the calendar. I'm being equally bold. Big deal.

The pipes are running dry, and dry noses are running. Bad weather, I must say, indeed.

The orange flower has a name that I don't know to translate to English. Beautiful, though.

Little dreams and fragments give me a little laugh. Of brothers, and wives and tales twisted.

The neighbour's water motor goes humming. Its strange drilling for my ears. Its no Mozart.

Opera is amiss here. Just the hoots and honks of the three-wheeler and the chugs chugs.

Music of the soul, for once, is sweet. Love, to know and to relish and be ravished.
Eternity.

A Year in a Morning

2011-02-23T17:02:00.000+05:30

Some moments encapsulate all that one feels - the intricate intensities, grimy goriness, frivolous fortitude and a timeless torment of sorts.Each morning as the cold and stagnant breeze of the ceiling fan brushes through the chinks in the warm golden blanket and tells me it is time to splash colder water on that lazy face to meet another day, a strange sensation fills me.

Of late, I have been able to pinpoint that sensation very clearly and describe it rather vividly too. Rising somewhere from the bottom of the Being, it steers clear of abysses frightful and takes birth in the form of a deep sigh. Hope calls it itself.

That moment of taking a deep sigh and being one with the world around - that is my moment of the day. Nothing matches the serenity of that moment. My sleep unfortunately pales in comparison. It is altogether some six hours of dreams, nightmares, whimpers and names that get lost in the dark blanket that night throws. Of this is that serene moment born, of a streak of sunlight on the sleepy socks of night, when all is illumined in a haze - unclear, yet poised to clear.

Stitched together, like Joseph's multi-coloured coat, and struck down to pieces like the rock, one little life. Aspirations remain. Undiluted. The search continues. For love and its ultimate realisation. The fire is not extinguished. To move on. To live.
To live Life.

Moments

2011-01-25T21:23:00.000+05:30

Moments come and moments ago.
Some moments stay etched forever.
Of fleeting moments when I look into you;
Of the times I look away into infinity;
All I know is that I see myself,
In those deep raven black eyes.
We have stood together, at the brink
And seen the world pass by.
We still can be impassioned and
be indifferent still to the world around.
Strange passions unite, indifferent likes
and dislikes are at once dispersed.

In the midst of all this, that moment
Of peace and love, enveloped by you
Enclosed by you and enriched by you.
Life seems differently good now.
Golden glows and cherished smiles.

Smiles. Smiles galore. Smiles that mean the world.
Life.

Contemplations on Waves and Winds : An Ode to the Passing Year

2010-12-31T07:59:00.000+05:30

Twenty years and a ten by the side it heralded,
Young, charming and sweet with hopes aboard,
My eighteenth year to witness and be celebrated,
And then Life had a response,"Mein Chemielabor".

Not the best to remember, yet most to treasure,
Of losses painful, more melancholic and pointed,
Yet full of a hope, that turns that pain to pleasure,
And now is a circle in its variations not haunted.

It has been a year that cannot be described in a word. It was not lovely. It was not miserable. It was a measurable 365 days in Life. Each day a lesson inscribed, to teach me well - from coping with bereavement to understanding the overwhelming beauty of the small things in life.

Life looks so different now - Thatha is no longer around to call my name. I have no one to call "Thatha" now. There are times when words choke in my throat when I mistakenly call Chitappa so - somewhere he hears that call and smiles, I am sure. I too smile when I hear the tinkling of buckets and see him standing at the bathroom door, with that beaming smile, wiping his feet and saying "Sha sha anisha".
Exams have come and gone, people have walked in and out of my life, some have painted a canvas to contemplate upon in times more dreary, a few left with memories too dreadful, but most have made me smile.
Ginger baby is gone too, his song now memory. In the same way, so many songs are now distant memories, mostly unrecoverable.
Life begins afresh, anew, resplendent with flowers and bees and in them, sweet ambrosia, of I which I drink.

Sunny Storms of December

2010-12-18T00:08:00.000+05:30

When December in its misty shroud,
Us does with care and concern wrap,
Who be you Intruder, mighty and proud -
My peace out of me to gently tap?

My shoulders are warmed and my heart-
Ah, is filled with delicacy and delight.
What unto you have I said then to part,
Leaving me alone to live through twilight?

I remember this from years six ago,
When I smiled through lace and loom.
I was a child with the violin and bow,
Sweet music rescuing me from doom.

I wonder where you were then,at that time that I needed you the most. O Sunshine, that through the Storm shines, memories do you in me awake, each time you smile upon my frozen skin.

A Miscellaneous jotting..

2010-12-06T02:30:00.000+05:30

The 5th of December, 2010
A usual, casual, bright and sunny Sunday. Night has already draped her mantle tightly as I write this - the window slightly ajar wafts in cold, chilly breeze, so typical of a December night.
I have practiced a lot today. I've heard the heart melting call "kozhandai" from my first violin teacher. I can inspire myself to practice when I hear that.
I have done something I vowed I would not, and felt it was nice yet bad. I smiled and I wept. I loved for a moment, liked for a second and hated it for eternity.
I still have not slept. Sleep will visit. When it visits, I wish it eternal. Till then, be I awake.

Of fearful forgetfulness

2010-11-18T23:42:00.000+05:30

To you, dear Muse. In oblivion you do me inspire.

I have prayed hard, nights on end, for that power,
Which in my befuddled brain was the only solution,
To that one problem which haunted me like a lover.

I have forgotten many things like a scary delusion -
So much about myself, and of being nice to a friend,
And one of those things that helped awhile – Intuition.

It was a dreary winter afternoon coming to a chilly end-
I realized silently through calm breath and frozen tears :
A hurt, whose call of pain deep in soul rang, without mend.

I have learned to forget, learned to take leave of fears,
But forgotten in the process to take leave of my soul –
A soul which sang a tale bittersweet unknown to seers.

I will forget not what I promised myself – to meet and dole,
Life’s little whims and fancies to the world unto Death’s goal.

Fear, Fragility, Futility

2010-11-10T16:08:00.001+05:30

Fear

I stand in fear of you.
I fear that glance -
I fear it shall pierce me,
As it always has.
Unflinchingly you gaze,
Inflicted am I -
With what, know I not.
I know just Fear.
Fear not of you,
But of what you are,
were and will never be.

Fragility

When that fear strikes,
I feel I exist not.
An existential fear -
that defines Fragility.
My body ceases to exist,
My head begins to swirl;
My heart pounds.
Relentlessly does it,
Till it tells me,
"Torment till I am tormented not."
I will not oblige.
Because it torments not.

I am fragile -
A piece of glass would pale
In comparison, yet is same
In that we both can be shattered
Into smithereens that are countless
And they hang about as teardrops
Or as the countless stars of the Universe.

Futility

A Routine. Listless and without reason.
A reason for existence failing
My life shows up.
An exercise in futility.
Of forgetting. Of splintering.
And then life moves on.
In tatters and smithereens,
Yet is whole and complete.
An existence.
Existential futility.
The thought is futile.

Pace. Pace. Pace.

Tangible Nostalgia..

2010-09-28T23:48:00.001+05:30

The Rain lashing down on grotesque green grass,
Sounds like Carmen being played on clumsy brass.

For once, the duality in me is far to obvious. I have enjoyed this evening for having been drenched in the rain, a cool shower with that seductive fragrance of raw Earth. That same joy is piercing pain the moment next, waxing, waning and always changing. The soft breezes and the subdued sun - a pleasant afternoon. Along the newly laid footpath, a brisk jaunt took me to the house that still resonates with my baby steps and innocent laughter. When things were still as I used to know, something made me want to connect once again to a time in the past - a cherished dream of spending quiet evenings, listlessly observing Thatha and Thathi go about their lives so beautifully and learn a part of myself that I left there years ago. That never came true - I did come back on beautiful afternoon to see a pale shadow of the man who so painstakingly yet effortlessly brought me into the world of numbers. And then I bid farewell to him.

Today sitting in the drawing room and watching the sun quickly disappear beneath rain clouds, I switched on the old dome lamp. As its soft light flooded the now darkened room, I almost reckoned I saw him there, sitting in the rattan chair, smiling at me and beckoning me to read the Tagore stories he once read out to me, in the midst of a thunderstorm under candlelight while Thathi brought us all hot tea for the evening. A child, that child in me never dies. She still runs around that house, with anklets tinkling and a sly smile on the face.

When I see Thathi, I cannot but think as to how much life has changed for her. The man who was her husband for fifty-four long years no longer at her side, with old age fast catching up with her, and Life being so different. Yet the intensity and passion with which she observes what goes on around her, the same as she lavishes on me - touching and inspiring.

One for my grandmother and the lovely house I grew up in - nostalgia perhaps is what is attached to memories distant. I know not what to call this - tangible memory, yet in the distant past.

Rain, Thou Young Gypsy Maiden....

2010-09-06T23:43:00.002+05:30

One of those typical summer days was drawing to a close, as the last tinges of burning orange gave way to a strange dulcet pink, blending the dying embers of day into the dark tapestry of night. She sat cross-legged and motionless on the grass, observing the nodding daisies as her thoughts randomly changed colour like that of the sky. One moment touched by the pangs of love, and a moment later she was diametrically afflicted by the pains of knowing that reality was far from being embodied in that all-overpowering emotion.

A lazy breeze tossed her curls over her face and an ant picked courage to harmlessly traverse the length of her arm, as she slowly moved out of her enforced reverie to set her eyes upon a lone bird spreading its wings, flapping relentlessly till it disappeared out of sight. The first stars of night were twinkling far out in the horizon and for an instant she knew not for certain if the bird she has seen was indeed the persistent twinkling of one of those stars in flight.

She had one of those dreamy constitutions - almost perpetually in and out of a reverie, making her one of those people who intrinsically understood the meaning of the present - a time-frame caught in between everything and nothingness. A moment passed would make it the past, and tearing itself from the shackles of the past emerges a virgin instant, whose purity she enjoyed as she stood there amid the tall greens, holding a daisy in hand. She looked as though she had stepped out of Faustian legend - an innocent-looking Margarite, doubting and questioning her love for old Doctor Faustus.

Even as the sky was now the dark tapestry of twinkling stars and the pale moon, she slowly shifted her feet onward, taking herself to the edge of the still lake where she saw herself.
"A strange feeling, an even stranger longing,
Thence are these sweet tears for thee flowing"
Memories flowed in and out as she stood there, her silent tears fell in resounding tones on the stillness of the lake. She was pointedly revisited by a face which she at once knew but did not know. "Erased in vain," muttered she. Tears flowed, not in the cliched torrent, but drop-by-drop, gently wetting her dry lips.

When she lifted her drooping eyelids, she no longer saw the stars twinkling, nor did the moonbeam streak across her face. It was almost as though heaven was the same standstill as her whole Being - pretentiously calm and still but a seething, cold coal on the inside. This paradox made it exceedingly difficult for her to express herself through words, yet her constantly flickering eyes expressed more than words could ever aspire to express. They spoke the language of Rain.

Slowly she felt the stirrings of music deep within her and this being the song of her soul, she sung it but to herself. But it was no ordinary song; a distant rolling of Thunder was now heard. What he spoke of only she knew, for only she could bear the intensity of what preceded - a flash of brilliant Lightening. Rain in its essence was her story, it was she herself.

Rain was a young gypsy maiden, pure as her raindrop, capricious in her appearance and intense in her explosion.

Finis.

Brusqueness, Brevity and the Burlesque.

2010-08-30T23:45:00.004+05:30

Dedicated with deepest love to the ever-present Muse of mine, who torments and cajoles, but all the time inspires.

I. Breeze and Chill

   The gust of the chill'd blown breeze,
   From the shepherd a wring doth fleece.

II. Strangeness

    Strange memories, an even stranger longing -
    Thence are these sweet tears for thee flowing.

III. Forgive and Forget - A Sonnet.

Written after a session of reading Marquez's 'Love in the Time of Cholera'

                               'I forgive and I forget', say I. Ah, can I ?
   I forgive you in heart for what you did,
     But to say I can forget, is a blatant lie -
        And this too in a mask will be well hid'n.

    I loved and love you soo that I can hate you not.
   You like me still and aspire to make sweet love -
      I am no longer the maiden you in thrall caught,
Caught was I indeed, but I fly now, a free dove.

A moment past, I wanted to kill you and dissolve-
    Unlike Othello, convinced of truth in myself and you;
    I hate to believe you wronged and long to absolve -
                            For if you are not there to make me smile, then Who?

     When everything fades from memory in the grave,
   We shall at last laugh and smile in Death's dark cave.

IV. Of a Magical Evening

      As one beautiful evening furls and fades,
      The scattered clouds tell magic tales.
      You ask me whether they Unicorns had,
      But my Lethe-drunk self serves me bad.
      After a moment of serene contemplation,
      I conjure the instant in sweet restoration.
      Ah, more than just an unicorn had it -
      For it mirrored our lives bit-by-bit.

Photo credit : PatrickSmith Photography, flickr.com
                    Giocomo Ariani, flickr.com

A full moon night.

2010-08-24T22:24:00.001+05:30

Clouded rain that mars a full moon night -
Sullen they may seem, but sombre are they.
The stars have taken mysterious flight,
Spreading darkness o'ver dreary day.

----.

Of a fleeting scene...

2010-08-07T16:10:00.001+05:30

Sometimes one feels like jotting a scene that touched a chord somewhere deep inside. The locales often happen to be nondescript places, filled with seemingly (and often truly) boring people and a hectic rush of life that makes one a bit out of place with the world.

A pet shop, crowded with people, among whom one spots a family inquiring about taking home a pup. As lot of things listlessly happen, suddenly the playful yelp of a pup is heard and the place is filled with a distinctly nostalgic doggy smell. Ah, it has been ages! The pup goes around nipping at the feet of his future family -that little white bundle of joy, what innocence is writ upon his face!

Moving on to the open cage from where the pup was lifted out, two black Labrador pups are seen playing. The fun seems infectious, urging me to stand and observe them for a minute longer. What I see is no longer the playful antics of two pups. Weaned far too early from their mother, they snuggle at each other, looking for the mother's bosom to suckle and find comfort, all but in vain. One more futuristic thought as to what one of them would feel when the other is taken away, and the joy of observing this scene is replaced by a deep sense of sorrow and a fond yet melancholic sense of maternal affection.

What feels one on observing the still undiluted feelings on earth? Some strange kind of heaven interspersed with all the devils of hell.

Of the Contemplations of a Heart

2010-07-17T23:39:00.003+05:30

The contemplations of a heart could inspire a myriad of images in a human being - from swirls to the regular image of the heart beating the constant lub-dub and spinning a thought to itself.This heart could, in turn, be light or heavy - burdened and chained or as light as a feather, pure and innocent. When the heart is something caught between the two, it is mine.

Of late, typing on the keyboard has somehow lost the charm just as the charm of writing on paper has revisited me. One's own thoughts on paper, scribbled or inscribed beautifully (however, always overflowing with love) has a very peculiar charisma to it. To leaf through pages that are indented by the nib and the smell of the ink as well as the strange slant of the writing that indicates the state of mind at the time of writing - these are certain pleasures that cannot be aspired when one tries to ascribe thought to the electronic medium.

A lot has taken place in the recent past, most of which is better consigned to the paper. However of all the writing, one little piece gives me reason to type it - just to see, in a good amount of vanity, how it looks on the screen.

Immortality, Love and a Kiss
For the invisible heroes and heroines of the ocean of literature.

What is Immortality? Do we know it?

In poetry and rimed verse we see it fit -

But in life that is all but mortal and done,

What can make us perceive this as fun?

A sad joke is this concept, say sour men,

Rid of the world and fed up of its pen.

You and me thirst for life in its entirety

And so grasp the concept of death pretty.

When that monstrous concept in hold is,

Immortality opens up to reveal infinite bliss.

Disenchanted men feel bliss was to rime with kiss,

But their thoughts show an understanding amiss.

What great concept is this, asks the one in us-

The ever curious cat that does not make a fuss.

Love sayeth the soul, coyly with a rosen'd cheek -

The one arrow that turns the even the bold meek.

-------
The holy marriage of two truths then -
IMMORTAL LOVE - BLISS, sealed with a KISS.
-------

27/06/10
The sculpture is "Cupid and Psyche" by Antonio Canova, now housed at the Louvre - immortal love encapsulated for immortality in marble.

On an Angel

2010-06-28T10:11:00.002+05:30

On an Angel
For the muse, voiced by the muse.

The sombre night is chilly cold;
All around me see I but balck.
Isolation now wraps me in her fold,
A strange sense at my Soul doth hack.

Voices in the air hear I,
Of pitches both sweet and high -
Silent angels sit still by,
Yet my soul meeteth not her eye.

My Being longs in sweet torment,
For all that Life in her cares doth hold.
I speak of that at a sacred moment,
Holding a soul in reams of gold.

Truth now slips in and out of me,
As Sleep slowly sinks in deep.
An angel now comes me safe to see -
In her warmed wings doth she me keep.

When Music takes over.....

2010-06-15T17:55:00.001+05:30

I have been back at college, starting the second of this month - to a mixed bag of feelings and impressions. The syllabus gets drier year by year, I presume, and if there is anything worthwhile to learn, situations align themselves to have those massacred. The first day started with hope that was as radiant as the sunshine that crept through in slanting lines from the canopy of the gulmohar trees that line the entrance to the campus, but the feelings that hit me afterward stand in stark contrast to every iota of the enthusiasm I had. The disappointment weighs greater in intensity in direct proportion to the expectation held in the heart. A heaviness of hours passed randomly weighs upon me rather heavily. Every day accentuates the 'fallen dream' of an academic education, but there is lot to say thanks for - freedom; freedom in atleast thought, though partially curtailed in movement. But is it just this disappointment that keeps pushing me back into a cold oven of melancholy and despair every now and then?

My music tells my it is not. There is lot more to it, and there is truth to that. Immense truths that keep in its bosom cauldering coal that shatters, seethes and burns every sinew of my heart. My cares and sorrows may not measure in intensity to those of one whom I know, but in that these are my sorrows and those are the sorrows that affect me, they hurt me, torment me and finally in a stroke of painful poetic justice, erase the pain to give a moment of relief. But that exhilaration lasts but a moment - a fleeting moment, snatched by jealous Time to keep for herself, never to give me back - only to turn me on mercilessly to her sister Fate to shred and snap.

In moments when no one seems to be around, and I feel all alone, solitude keeps me company. But is she pleasant company when sorrows weigh down heavily. I, for one cannot take the situation. Then to the harmonic muses fly I - to music and its overwhelming intensity and passion through which my sorrows are drowned to nothingness. Of late, I have been revisiting the much played and popular Violin Concerto of Bruch. Heard almost every day in some way or the other, it has been a staple piece of violinists for its innate musicality and violinistic writing that helps project easy technicality. Yet, inspite of its overexposure (which indeed made Bruch himself term it his 'Allerweltkonzert - 'my world-wide concerto'), it wrings and uplifts the heart simultaneously, juicly wrapping itself around the heart strings. Its sound texture cannot be described by any other word but seductive, for it is impossible not to fall in love with it, and reinvents itself each time to open up yet another variant of its beauty. The turbulence of the Vorspiel with its 'doubting thomas' runs and charged atmosphere somehow attracts me a lot - it almost mirrors the agony of a soul craving a creative outlet. And ah, when the outlet comes, how it does! The Adagio can not be said to be placed in the human realm, yet is earthy in its reach. It belongs to a sphere which unites us to the Infinite. A simple musical analysis of this piece would be murder, for there is a poetry that cannot be explained within those lines. As the dust slowly settles on the shaky notes and there is a momentary silence, like the moonlight suddenly emerging from the dark night, a sound resonates - that of the soul. Of this soul is the universal soul born, transcending cruel Time and making it halt standstill as waves wash over and over the shore of the soul, mingling Beauty with Pathos. In all beauty there is a streak of sorrow that is so great that it does not show out. Perhaps that is why, as Saul Bellow says, the most sunlit moments of Mozart are the ones that encompass the greatest tragedies of the human soul. Or why go that far? Shelley does so mellifluously intone that "Our happiest songs are those that sing of the saddest thoughts". The adagio seems to epitomise this timeless thought.

As the violinist threading the finger and the bow together and subconsciously ordering the muscles to pull themselves together into action to produce this music, the experience is something that cannot be conveyed in words. The heart stops, as if to listen to it and weep, the head becomes blank, as though to erase everything to hold only this as its gem and altogether surroundings seem not to exist within physical boundaries, yet they are forced to. A slight error in placing the finger and a misjudgement as regards the bow pressure can ruin the entire world that the music holds in its bosom, but somehow with this one piece, technicality has not challenged me to the extent of forcing myself to be awake for technique's sake.

Perhaps the overwhelming sorrow at having to let go of the veil as the bow slowly moves across the string to spring the note into an unknown world of silence is the sorrow of my soul. I write without knowing and tears stream. Tears which without a mistake can tell me that I feel and am betrayed. I place trust and worth in people, or perhaps a person who hardly make pretense of returning it. It is not even that I expect something like that, but the irksome feeling that one knows that you trust and revels in it while considering it too infradig to confide in you hurts like mad. Tears start to choke and it hurts deep, deep inside. A hurt that no other pretense can cure. Is it so or is it but a nagging feeling of wanting to be acknowledged? Perhaps yes, but otherwise not.My dreams are pretty vivid these days - from seeing a frightening dream of caravan gipsies by a campfire on a moonless night who stole away something that I loved but returned it in the end, to seeing awful dragons and creatures, these more or less capture the tumult that I go through. Letting go yet holding on, being held on yet being let off. Paradoxes that hurt yet define. Life is a funny journey.Music and literature offer a momentary escapade; sometimes they bring me closer to the mundane reality and yet some other times, they throw up a session of revelatory experiences, not just about themselves, but also about people around me.

Memories flood in again. The same bed, the same room, the same plants, the same windows through which the afternoon light would flood in, the same place which would bustle with noise and sounds and an anxious yet in retrospect, a peaceful young girl would open out her books to do her work. Now she sits at a vaguely robotic laptop, typing in a tremendous overflow of emotions not knowing what else to do. She is all but alone in this world. Tears perhaps keep her company, as do the silent zebra plant that was her childhood companion. As the blaze of the sun lightens and the evening sets in, nostalgia moves in. Yet, she, the I in me, has no one to share it with. The collyrium smudges, and a salty drop wets her lip. One moment here, one moment apart. This moment gone, gone forever. My heart's longing for someone is realised, yet in the same moment broken. Life can all but be memories. Ah, that were nothing so as this! Yet, without them, the purgative pain of realisation shall never be ours.
The fan slowly spins and gently brushes the laced curtain cloth against her face. Years ago, she was a little baby, smiling to equal her loved ones' smile at her joy. Joy was all she knew till Sorrow brought her melancholy self to drive away sweet Joy. The smile still smiles at me, for the loved one is at a blessed place where only smiles reign. She can smile not back, she can but restrain those torrential tears. Or perhaps were it not better than she atleast softly smiled? Yes, she smiles, and a smile can be melancholic too.

"Now begins the dark, sombre night, of silent waiting, of rising hopes and a tinge of anger. The silver moon doth rise now, at this sacred evening hour, as the lamps are lit in the temple...lending a pale glow to the now subdued lamps. I am silent, yet I speak. I wait for my soul to speak."

To lose a grandfather who meant more than the stereotypical old man of old stories is difficult. The loss has not sunk in deep despite a couple of months flying past. Perhaps because I could never have enough of his presence, his smile, that silent chuckle after explaining a complicated calculus problem that had me wondering, but which was second nature to him. Memories are perhaps the sweetest when sad...as this moment, I sit in the chair which I have played on since I was an infant, my heart goes silent for a moment when I see him coming out of his room, calling my name as he sees me lift my head, and beckons me to take the old bag and go till the fruit shop and back. A three-year old child. That is all that life meant then. Now, ephermerality rules everywhere. The plant that greets me one morning withers the next. The inflammed love of the night melts in the bustle of the day. The fury of the storm abates to a death-inducing calm. Nothing remains as it should. The smell of his powder wafts through the air now. The jasmine in the garden reminds me of a time, exactly this hour, when my hair would be oiled and plaited and tied with ribbons. Those curls now remain tame, tied up seemingly ordered not to disturb. The evening wind blows - the leaves dance, yet they too lack something - just like we all do. They too miss one who was so a part of them. What then surprises me is that, it is not only in death that one lacks, in life too does not one feel absence? To feel the presence perhaps is more difficult than to try to extricate the arrows of absence.

Here take I leave. Poetry as a right of dictation shall be exercised on paper in a while. Till then!

Mutter und Tochter

2010-05-08T16:19:00.009+05:30

Du bist meine Mutter - wie einfach zu sagen,

Ich bin deine Tochter - wie glücklich bin ich!

Wenn ich bei dir bin, gibt es keine Fragen,

keine Antworten auch. Ach, wie lieb'ich dich!

Dein Lächlen spricht immer die Seele an

Deine Liebe ist wie das unendliche Meer,

Du gibst mir Kraft zu sagen, ,,Ich kann"

In dieser Welt, ohne dich bin ich leer.


Wenn zwei ewigen Meere kommen zusammen,

Was kann es sein, außer die wahre Ewigkeit?

So ist unsere Liebe, Amma - es ist die Schoenheit,

Wovon man immer träumt und endlich denkt,

dass er das nie gefunden hat. Schade.

Ich bin glücklich, dass ich dich habe.


Du bist alles für mich - meine ganze Welt,

die du mit deiner Liebe Paradies macht.

-----
You are my mother - how light to say,
I am your daughter - ay, lucky me!
When I am with you, there are no questions,
And so are no answers - I love you.

Your smile speaks to the soul,
Your love like the unending sea -
You give me power to say, "I can" ;
Ah, in this world, I am empty sans you.

When two eternal seas meet,
what can it be but true Eternity?
Such is our love, Amma, it is the Beauty,
Of which one dreams and dreams and finally thinks,
That one never found it. What a pity!
I am blessed, that I have you.

You are everything for me - my whole world,
Which you make Paradise with your love.

----
PS : You are the best mummy in the world!! And so are all those mothers of just plentiful, overflowing love that I have had the luck to meet over the years. I can only hope that I will be half as good a mother as what you have been to me. I love you soo much - and for this one case, there is no poetic freedom or fancy in what is said, it is just the plain poetic truth.
   Georgie Podgie Pudding and Pie,
                                                                                     Kissed the girls and made them cry,
   When the boys came out to play,
                                                                                           Georgie Podgie ran away.
The rime is still stuck in my head - in no small measure, but in your voice. That is what I treasure the most in this memory. And if I am still Frisky the Little Fox, it is because of those unending nights of repeatedly reading to me that lovely story. It made me proud of my eyes, nose and ears and of course, those pearly white teeth. We learnt time with Mr. Wolf - "What is the time, Mr. Wolf?" and skipped along to those little ditties that dad loved and still loves to play.
This one is meant for you and you alone, and in you, I see motherhood. And in that, dedicated to all mothers in wide, bright, beautiful, wonderful world. Without you, we little ones would not have, in the first place seen this, and more importantly, understood that those adjectives fit it - you are sole reasons enough to justify Beauty in its most exalted sense.

Life and its three-course platter

2010-05-05T07:58:00.001+05:30

"As evening slowly settles in, the warm glow of the sun reflects off the bookshelf. Before gracing the ancient glass to show in golden tones the lilt of the young flowers and leaves standing in the garden, the warmth envelopes me. I stand there alone, as thousand myriad thoughts flow in and out. People brush past me, some smile, some scorn, some laugh, some shed a rare tear, some others are passive spectators, and the mob mocks cruelly. In the mob stands sometimes a loved one, to tease and to entreat a tear, or perhaps out of a mistaken notion of my identity. Whatever the reason may be, perhaps wholly reasonless, in my solitude, I am impervious. Or so deign I myself - 'Come Scoglio, imotto resta!. Is it all but a farce like the brave front Fiordiligi tries to put up at the beginning of Cosi, only to tremble and crumble at Ferrando's unbelievably touching entreaty of 'Volgi a me'? The varied emotions that pass through her mind as potrayed in the great aria 'Per pieta' is in a way, a magnificient microcosm in itself - a world of its own, dependant in its isolation, free in its constraints or perhaps constrained in its freedom, a contradictory existence in which the soul fails to isolate two disparginly different interpretations of what is set before it to see, feel and vibrate.

I am alone. In my solitutde, I am, by free will, alone. But am I alone? Nay. Another gross lie, like the many lies that make up a confounded existence. Why, is not my Life a big lie? Depends, perhaps on a reliable definition of truth and untruth.There is perhaps only a rare moment when I feel bereft of a strange sense of someone near me. If there is one thing that is certain, it is just that I am a little grain of sand, washed by the infinite waves, made to caress another multitude of sand grains, of which a few acknowlegde and smile, and the majority care less. Then why is it that one isolated little grain of sand - a speck of nothingness in this vast tapestry of the Universe(which in itself is but another speck in the panorama of other Universes), feel so much? Why I am constantly hurt, or feel that I am hurt? Why do I see everything that comes my way as a bolt out of the blue - as a call to stop everything and to rest? I race and pace, yet nothing comes to a standstill as I wish.

I listen to my music, yet I am no longer at peace as was formerly.I read my thousand wonderful books, yet even a happy ending makes me feel not good - rather, it drives home cruelly the point that at some stage, happy endings exist only on paper. Something strange stirs uneasiness in me. Tears choke in my throat at the blink of an eyelid and even as I think of writing anything, the collyrium is smudged and spread. Is this Life? Is this to be my existence? It sometimes scares me, in as much as people who term me in very simplistic terms, 'mad'. Poor people who grossly misunderstand what madness in its bower encompasses!

Evening is now past - memories fill my thoughts - relentlessly assailing my mind with images of a past that shall never again be held in tangibility, but instead shall remain consigned forever in an intangible meddle of uncorked emotions, experienced sorrows and laughed-out happiness. Perhaps the most painful thing about memories is that due to its sheer existence, it compounds and empowers the sense of loss with a void - a deep chasm that cuts into the soul like a butcher's knife, reminding and tauntingly haunting of all that was and will not be, yet never for a moment in its vicarious grip allow the soul to rethink and look forward to what will be.

Elusiveness is tormentingly seductive. As this moment approaches, I look forward to something, expecting the unexpected ring of joy to suddenly envelope me in a halo. Perhaps my angels are already standing by the bedposts, covering me with their infinite wings. They tell me soothing stories of a world far removed from the misery of this. And once again, why is this world termed as miserable? It is not that I do not like Life, on the contrary, I am totally in love with it and all that it offers positively and negatively. But the knowledge that something good exists, makes the existence of evil a painful realisation."

Realisations are many and one among them is that I have to leave the pen flowing now. So comes the end of part two of the novella. The little girl has seen a bit more of the confusing world in its entirety. Still perplexed, she spins - but not for long. Now she stands, firm and straight, ready to face the world. Acceptance, in a way, is all that Life is about.

Peace?

2010-05-03T17:34:00.000+05:30

Attempting to write prose after a long stint with poesie is now a task difficult for me. Even as I write this, my mind is constantly breaking it down into a metrical rhythm, finding rimes and patterns. Perhaps, poesie wins my heart over prose. It resonates with the soul of my entire Being and brings forth from it a song, though imperfect in its baby steps, puts me at rest and at peace.

Innocent ignorance is bliss,
Realisation is a poisonous kiss,
But without both, something's amiss.

Written a moment ago, while affirming that, "nothing....something.....everything and anything...

makes it certain that somewhere is the place where anywhere and nowhere meet to form the unity of being everywhere"

Being in a state where nothing else matters. That is where I am now.

Strange, Tormented Peace.

Why do I call it peace?

Because it shatters me in pieces.

Cold Kisses on Melancholy

2010-04-26T18:38:00.002+05:30

Cold Kisses on Melancholy...
Dedicated to my Muse of emotions surpassed, who inspires and instills emotions undistilled that in raw poetry, barely poetry is refined to distill and quieten an uneasy heart.

A cold tear slowly kisses my naked back,
Dripping from heaven to assuage my fear -
Giving me courage that I sans reason lack,
For I am pierced by darts like a hunted deer.

The drip-drop,pitter-patter rime of yore,
Mimicks the heavings of my breast -
For an instant, I am at Innocence's door,
Wondering at the coldness of the lovenest.

I make the sorrows of the world my own,
For some strange sense of peace and ploy-
Like Atlas grimace I under the weight borne,
But in the pain is a ray of resplendent Joy.

Perhaps I am too much in tune with a world -
Far removed from this one in which I am,
Where sorrow is naked and in joy furled,
I am in this world strange a scared little lamb.

Ich weiss nicht, was es soll bedeuten,
Dass ich so traurig bin......
Perhaps the litlting song of the Lorlei
Has my heart in tumult bound and tied.

It pounds, desperately, as though it will never -
To share a secret sacred to me and you-
It aches strangely and I am torn in fervour,
Will I or can I? Must I or should I - do?

Do I live? Am I alive? Or is it but a joke?
If a joke it is, then it is cruel indeed on me -
Like never-failing arrows do they me poke,
Ah, let all be as it has been and should be.

Happy me that through sorrow smiles,
And in torment to laugh is forced -
Silence is like the never-ending Nile,
Born and dead, dead and born - the fire is doused.

Is it? Nay - A lie. The soul is indestructible,
Of many lives before see I a time,
In my pitiable dimension irrevocable -
But I sit not and broodingly pine.

Melancholy, my wedded man - make haste!
The sun is down and to the bed race.
What is in mirth unworthy and waste,
In our sorrow is Infinte Grace.

Storm in Soul

2010-04-18T16:45:00.006+05:30

STORM IN SOUL

Dedicated to all whom the rain specially inspires and so is my Muse of tormenting pleasure.

It is raining and it is heavily pouring,
The thunder is magnificiently rolling -
A blitz in the heavens, ah Lightning,
The noose around my soul is tightening.

My soul is parched and my zest is gone,
My thirst is not slaked, but I am reborn -
For something oozing Beauty pulls me on,
My love awakens me to a rosy dawn.

A smell, sadly sweet in fragrance rises,
It fleetingly floats and achingly entices -
Stealthily my tranquility from me it prices,
My entire Being is now played like dices.

Silence pervades the air, but unquiet is my mind -
Nature echoes my fears by replying in kind,
Distant thunders roll and me in chains bind,
In this turmoil, my dearest, myself do I find.

Alone am I in this pristine moment of solitude,
But I yearn to find you in hazy mists many-hued,
In spite of all the inner strength and fortitude,
My heart swoons at thy grace and attitude.

The storm rages outside, the soft candles are lit inside -
In resigned vain my emotions I try from myself to hide,
The bosom of the sea swells to an overwhelming tide,
I am here, O love, to thee alone forever in faith abide.

Burnt Fingers.

2010-04-12T13:27:00.003+05:30

BURNT FINGERS

Dedicated to my Muse, who torments to unleash poesie. And with deepest love to my dearest Thatha, sitting on whose lap I first heard many wonders of this ephemeral world.

The alluring smell of my early morning coffee,
Was replaced by the charred hiss of burning skin -
Fire caressed my fingers light in a moment
Leaving me with penetrating pain as with a pin.

Fingers burn, the skin turns sallow and pale and peels,
Dipped in a mug of icy cold water while it softly stings,
The physical pain is nothing to what my soul feels -
Churned and tossed on the calm ocean as it sadly sings.

O Muse enchanted, of tales ambrosial sing ye,
I swoon and saunter, merrily and gay, but -
Ye tell me, All the world is a lilting lie. Ahime!

'A peace which passeth understanding'
I am at peace now.
Shanti.

Silent Sorrows.

2010-04-01T21:57:00.002+05:30

Silent Sorrows.

Writing a dedication to this little piece is task more difficult than thought. Taken flight on the highway of imagination upon four lilting lines from a dear friend R., alliterated admirably in my native tongue.
I.
The soft touches, the sweet words,
The fading dreams, forever memories,
The crying child, the chirping birds,
An ancient tree, our short lease.

II.
The unsettlling heat of first love and rain,
Turns immense pleasure to intense pain.
The softness of a feather tantalises his mane,
Erda's flitting butterflies are Cupid's mean gain.

III.
The wisdom of the soul and follies of the heart,
All at once come together to play their sorry part.

Counterpoint Exercises

2010-03-17T10:58:00.005+05:30

Nr.1 As My Heart Bleeds.

My heart bleeds with his,as the pouring heavens stage this -

An etheral drama of permeating power, panache and pain,

He awakens me ever so lightly with a fleetingly soft kiss,

Our eyes and immortal souls meet amidst a glorious rain.

Nr.2 Written for Snowy the Doggie.

As the night cold sets slowly in stony stealth,

The bedsheets radiate the warmth of health,

Snowy lies there in furs - seductively asleep-

Her Sweetheart breathes in then softly deep.

Nr.3 The First Showers of March.

When the first slender showers of summer in the Night visit,

The young shoots of the mango tree and the red Asoka alike,

The strange smell of the Earth is too intoxicating to miss it -

The unsettling familiarity of memories is a painful delight.

Nr.4 The Feather.

After the storm comes calm - and perhaps a ruffled feather ;

In His Will Lies Our Peace, so traced I on a yellow bill -

A year ago for a dear one - black ink and fingertip together -

Memories swirl, my head is in a twirl.Hopelessly I trill and chill.

Nr.5 The Masque.

My Life, as is yours, is a colourfully sad masque,

Nulla in mundo pax sincera - Ay, its is all a lie.

Forget the torment and in its solemn sunshine bask -

Dance and sing and with a sincere smile, a chance buy.

Nr.6 The Four Seasons.

Spring is Life in its virginal beauty and eternal mystery,

Summer flares in its fiery heat and fearless activity -

Autumn brings with it mellow maturity and tranquility,

Winter brings down the curtain with cold sinister sobriety.

Nr.7 Love

Love conquers all, and vanquishes too, feel I -

In the same moment am I victor and vanquished;

Powerless when Infinity gazes into me from his eye,

I shudder, yet give in to attain Eternity - ravished.

PS: My eternal gratitude to those who have stood and are standing with me in my hour of desperation and crisis, even as I forget my own to be there in soul and spirit for a dear one in need.
Disconnected counterpoint exercises are the result of a mind tormented, as is with a disenchanted student of music trudging his path towards the miracle of composition. Life is like Music - these lay exercises remove the disenchantment when true Beauty is seen through lines written in disappointment.

Poetry over Prose : A Lament.

2010-03-11T07:48:00.000+05:30

Dedicated to singularly one soul, shattered and fragmented over many.
Simply put, there are a few intimate people and innumerable allusions that I would have to allude to, to do justice to a dedication. Each one, read this, find thine part and ponder.

I write poetry,so to say, lot more than prose -
Atleast these days, that is what is seen.
Why? I myself ask this question to myself,
But the answer eludes me like a naughty elf.

At a quarter to five, its still dark, the world's asleep -
But did I sleep? Nay, not a wink.
I have counted the strikes - one by one,
Of the ancient pendulum clock tonight -
The strokes from a half-past eleven,
When I lay down to sleep in my 'aircraft chair',
To the misery counting a half-past two,
While desperately trying to push away nausea.

O my goodness! What hear I? The whirring of a mixer?
Yea. The kitchen fire has been lit. Ablaze, I should say.
Gosh, I am hungry and my stomach is grumbling.
So early in the morning? After all, it is morning.
But without a good night's sleep is it so?
Right now, the morning looks like night.

Thoughts flood in and gush out,
Incessant dialogues bombard my brain.
The dividing line between many is dull -
Consciousness melted into the sub-conscious.
I know not for sure if I have spoken lines,
I have dreamt far more than I usually do.
I know I have experienced something -
What does one call it now? Bizzare?
Perhaps. Tears are streaming down.
The last part of the first movement
Of the monumental Brahms. Power.
Lust. Passion. Purity. Tranquility.
Life and Death.

In this muddled state of mine,
Sentences cut at uneasy intervals,
Which can be freely termed 'free verse'
Relieve me of a lot of my pent-up emotions.
Writing one correct sentence now,
Is a seemingly impossible proposition.
Bufuzzled by thoughts imposing,
I am totally zoomed out.
There is pain, torment, joy, passion -
All rolled into one in me now.
A feeling akin to a miracle -
Let us qualify the miracle now :
A Depressing Miracle.

Ah, I see red spots on my smooth hand.
Of course, in addition to nurses in a hosptial,
There is this one group of characters,
Who work throughout the night and also
Perform a task not so different -
Syringe out blood. In copious amounts.
In both cases, its of near null value.
This one however, can cause loss.
Severe loss - of sleep.
Night after night, vague reasons keep me -
In a strange state of awakeness.
Someone is near me. I can sense it.
It is eerie, but comforting.
I can feel the hot breath, I can.
And be assured, I am not hallucinating,
Though I am tempted to believe otherwise.

There is a strange embarassment involved now -
Calling this poetry is an affront to my senses.
Yet the Muse speaks. I turn the offer not down.
Ah, Muse. Muses.The Muse muses. Pretty!
An Apologie For Poetrie.
Requiescat in Pace, dear Sidney, gallant poet -
You were one handsome Elizabethan man.

I think I am heading to be an insomaniac
And it wasnt so long ago that I battled
The habit of seeing the sun at eight.
Strange is the world. Strange am I.
Sometimes I puzzle myself more than anything else.

Do I realise that I intended getting
Into a class at sometime around ten?
Perhaps I ought to inform them -
To keep a pillow ready for a good sleep.
Or maybe a bit more polite, I could
Very well carry one along.

The place is still dark, and I feel sick.
Sick from the bottom of my Being.
But I will fight. An unseen enemy.
I can perceive the threat, sure.
And I will not give up.
The world seems to spin -
On another axis.
All against me and what I like.
Sorrow breaks me, tragedy kills me.
Should they? Yes.
Broken and Remoulded.
Killed and Revived.
We die deaths every moment,
Without exception. But who thinks?
Every moment gone-by, gives us
Something new- a new insight.
How? By remoulding an old thought.
In moulding is the old extinguished.
It lives on in its new form. Like a legacy.

About a hour later, bitter lime juice
Takes care of the light-headedness.
The bigger problem is intact, though.
There is something wrong somewhere.
A direct result of being in hospital environs -
Sitting in a room, oppressed by silence,
Contrasted by death wails in the corridors;
Life comes to a standstill.
As one awaits a call on that musty phone,
For a bit of news from an unit as to the well-being
Of a loved being, entrusted in hope -
Of caring consideration,
The heart stops for a moment.
You never know what to expect,
And doctors, are particularly fickle.

Good enough recipe for losing sleep.
Add to this the sufferings of the world.
Is sensitivity a sin? Will remaining like a rock help?
To my conviction, No.
The ability to perceive the finer things
In Life comes along with this rider.
Acceptance? In a way.
La Vita e bella.
Confirmed after listening to the worn-out
Canon of Pachebel. Worn-out? Never.
Splendidly fresh. The soul blooms in its warmth,
As the young hibicus unfurls in the garden.
Amen.

A Birthday Present II

2010-03-08T22:39:00.001+05:30

A Birthday Present II

Dedicated to S.,on her birthday ,about which ,for once ,I am sure.

Composing a birthday poem for my Schwetzy,
As lovely as a wine creeper seeking the Sun,
(With cheeks so adorable, awaiting a kissie :)
I am back for a date with my old friend Pun.

A familiar chuckle escapes my lips when I smile,
The reason being I masked a smiley in a poem,
With parentheses and a colon being in perfect file,
I am hopeful that this one would be found handsome.

As the midnight hour rings in a beautiful dark day,
In the seductive fold of the drapes of a starry Night -
Your mind meanders a mazy meadow by a blue bay ,
As docile dreams superimpose into a blinding Light.

Forgive me if I alliterate in memory of KublaKhan,
But the strange heat of the day melts ice into me;
Thoughts race without care as if on an Autobahn -
And I am left with the sole company of a little bee.

Ay happy we!we that innocence and purity treasure,
That we forever be children in the garden of the Lord,
And partake of joys unknown to man in human measure -
The greatest wisdom is sometimes seen in a baby's nod.

My sister soul, be thou who thou really art -
For in thine unspoken clarity of thought,
Thou art like Shelley's sweet singing Lark ;
Let your little being in this form be so caught.

With loads of love and kisses and hugs, Ani.

The Aimless Poet : A Lion's Lunch

2010-03-01T13:12:00.005+05:30

Introduction : The Aimless Poet

A poet without an aim and goal
Is like a frustrated, clueless mole -
With everything hazy,devoid of soul,
The mind is blacker than a black hole.

So on what does a poet muse,
When what lacks is the fuse?
There is of course nothing to lose,
But there hangs the hangman's noose.

I try to conjure things wondrously nice,
Of fluffy cats and pretty little mice -
But in a tricky throw of the rusty dice,
My ideas freeze a better one into ice.

Frozen and encapsulated -so remain moments,
Snapshots of time that are sometimes torments,
In mind and soul are they torrid torrents,
On paper they appear as flowing garments.

A Lion's Lunch

It is a sight as rare in a deep jungle seen,
To see a grand lion his sumptous lunch eat -
Rice and a poor chicken's severed legs lean,
A scene of awe and fear in the summer heat.

A little cat who ate but green leafies sat by,
And sighed a sigh as she saw a rare delight -
But the king deemed it not nice to let her lie,
And ordered pickle to set her tail aflight.

Meticulously immersed in his tedious task -
Cleaning the pink flesh off tiny little bones,
The lion was no coward to wear a mask-
It was for all to hear the glorious moans.

A lion's lunch did inspire an iambic rime,
And the golden mane deems his life an epic -
Not to be composed in this short given time,
But to be written over a pace not so hectic.

In some funny rib or the other, the lion laughs,
Making the cat shake off her furry paw -
The swishing tails of the lion and cat halves,
The sight is good enough for a dislocated jaw.

That shall be the end of our ditty little,
Akin to the song of the Owl and the Pussy Cat,
Who went to the sea on a boat-o-brittle,
Till the cat and the lion caught a fat rat.

************Das Ende**********

Sonnet Nr. 5 : Towards His Soul

2010-02-26T00:52:00.006+05:30

Dedicated to my Muse, who kindles and ignites flames so powerful that they burn my thoughts till expressed.

There is much to be said, yet most is unsaid,
But in the reveberation of souls on fire fed,
All, at once, is like dainty daisies lain bare -
Time and Torment exist not in a moment so rare.

His Existence shudders at being unravelled in soul,
He seeths and ignites my very Being like calm coal -
Stunned seductively into the silence of undefined space,
He draws my Soul into a trance with his hypnotic gaze.

In a suspended moment of serenely intense Eternity,
My soul took flight to meet his in the Garden of Infinity -
Breathless stood mine as it beheld him swift and graceful;
Ah,only to leave me lost in thoughts more joyfully painful.

In the greatest melancholy unspoken is our finer Truth revealed ;
The miracle of uniting our Souls in Infinite Communion received.

PS: Inspiration visits only when perturbed. Special thanks to a dear friend for sparking me back to my turbulent torrents of creative frenzy arising from the need to live in two planes,each of different dimensions and truth.
PhotoCredit : Danny Hahlbohm, art.com

Sumer Is Icumen In......In more ways than one!

2010-02-23T18:55:00.003+05:30

A humid February evening -
The skies are turning of hue
Of dulcet pink that makes
The heart wring of Beauty.
Ah, but that I could sing like thee, O nimble Nightingale,
Of Summer in full-throated ease, as Keats intones,
When the oppressive heat of Summer's call drowns me
In thoughts of dispostions more Melancholic,
Envisaging the World as it is - enchantingly dismal!

The 23rd of February. It is just past six in the evening and I am rather clumsily refreshed after a short nap which was unfortunately followed by impromptu chocolate eating.It killed my mood the same way it lifted it - strange are the ways of Chocolate and pardon the pun, for my dear violin Chocolate is an equally moody man to deal with.Listening to "Wie eine Rosenknospe" from Die Lustige Witwe and chuckling to myself while remembering a hilarious line or two, I am passive as evening overtakes, plunging the day slowly into darkness. What power have I to stall the wheel of Time? Nothing. And in that see I my limitations as a human, but do I accept it that quickly? No, not the least. Not before I give it a try. So I plunge myself into the Infinity that music affords and yes, everthing stands still, the hue of the sky is painted upon my eyes and the enveloping breeze plays at my ears. Is this all but illusion and nothing more than a dream?

Coming to the root of the issue, butterflies in the stomach cause moods like this very often.Call it a pre-birthday panic attack, but somehow I do not like the demarcation that a birthday is. Was it not me myself who wrote out "A Birthday Present", dedicated to the eye-opener soul, lamenting the futility of calling a day the "day" of turning a year older? Yes, I have not sunk in Lethe yet, but my growing sense of humanity around me makes me question myself at every step and hold my emotions in check. A wonder in itself that I can list the changes in myself.However what cheer do I promise myself? Nothing very special, though an air of melancholy hangs about me at this moment.And to analyse it correctly, it hangs not just about me, but about everything. Why?

Admitted, I have no answers, yet I seek them. I will continue to seek them, illuminated by little lamps lit by the kindled fire in the soul around me.A day shall make a difference perhaps, imperceptable, but yea - Life calls.

Sonnet Nr. 4 : In My Heart

2010-02-15T23:29:00.007+05:30

Dedicated to my Muse,the beautiful lady of flowing robes.Written as a sonnet perceived by Cordelia in response to Johannes*

I muse incoherently on what churns in my heart,
For the sad lack of knowing what pierces his part -
Into mine has the flower-armed god his arrows shot,
Leaving me in a torrent - like a bird trapp'd and caught.

As we flitted through pastures pleasant and green,
His quiet smile revealed more than what is seen,
Yet when our eyes in sweet slumber closed slow,
A stark wind unseen and new did seemed to blow.

A coldness unknown to you and me seems to speak,
For which I try into your mysterious mind to peek;
Opposites which define and dignify you, my Love,
Tear apart mine which flutters like a dying dove.

If by strange manner and cold attitude I be won,
Know of my inner fortitude being built as done.

*Soren Kierkegaard's Diary of a Seducer, which forms the 'aesthetic development' of his work "Either/Or" features the near Byronic hero, Johannes who snares Cordelia, ever so mentally. A fantastic work dwelling on the mind game aspects of illusion and delusion, it offers a chillingly forthright account of what goes on inside the human mind when it encounters the emotion called Love.
Photo credit : Jim Patterson, Flickr.com

Living Another's Life : An Illusion?

2010-02-11T15:03:00.001+05:30

"A quick row of blogs in succession.
What could this indicate? Simple, creative outburst.
Due to? A dire need for expression.
Fuelled by? A strange emotion that is stirring inside me.
Causing? It is vague - it depresses, inspires, makes me loose sleep."

A rather romantic Staasi interogation. Once again some two hours of celluloid has provoked me to set my pen moving - "Das Leben der Anderen" - "The Lives of Others." A masterly movie, which when I saw posters I was apprehensive of due to the sheer number of awards it had collected, it is a subtle interwoven story that narrates on the face of it the oppression of a playwright in the GDR-era, a sharp criticism on the Communist regime and its methods, while at the same time focusing on the intrinsic human feelings and contradictions that beset a person who pretends to be an emotionless-machine. It is not for long that feelings are masked, what stirs on the inside has to manifest on the outside, however slightly. A true testimony of the courage of the human spirit, this film managed to elicit the same response from me as when I first heard Shostakovitch. Perhaps there is no nearer musical equivalent of this kind of torture than Dmitri Shostakovitch and his music has haunted from the first moment I heard it. I still remember the breathless anxiety and disturbance I felt when I first heard his haunting Piano Trio when still a child who understood naught of pressure,politics and composition - some memories remain crystal clear, the only other musical memory being that of being in tears through smiles after hearing the Beethoven Violin Concerto. Oh, what would I not give to experience that all over again? That pristine moment of realisation of Beauty that makes Life complete never fails to work its magic in times as of now, when dejection and depression seem to spell my moods alternatively.

The reason why I have not dwelt on Das Leben is perhaps because this piece was started about five days ago, and then paused for the sake of a few test papers. Test papers bring me back to my topic of depression. I am depressed to that point that I am a bit apprehensive as to even how the best of my depression-confiders will take it. A good amount of talking me out of that dejection worked its charms on Sunday night-from discussing tiger conservation to what not on human society,only to dumped into a pit of muddier eddies on Monday evening, after writing that miserable piece of a test paper. After reading those insipid questions, the study of some fifteen essays, of which some seriously offend the sensibilites, was reduced to a mere charade of 'mugging up' the whole text. Worthless. Is this what our education in its haloed name has come down to? Or rather, has it ever been different? Seemingly yes. Then why am I supposed to be at the receiving end of this humbug? Difficult questions. Answers are sought.

My rant on that over, I believe it is high time I got back to working on my old sonnet, which was inspired by Kierkegaard's "Diary of a Seducer". My reading list for the time being is suspended to the known domains due to the constraints of spending time 'mugging up', so that I pass my papers decently. Somehow the thought of rewriting these papers, even for fun, is revolting. However I remember having promised myself to introspect and answer the question as to whether any book or sorts that I have read has influenced my mindset in recent times.Fantastic question, it seemed and
the answer was simple too. I know not with others, but I tend to separate my reality from the fiction or the philosophy I read. The latter theory may be funny, but it is only in that way that one develops a path of life for one's own. Living life on Kant's terms or on Camus' terms is not what it is all about.Somewhere, amongst the little pond of characters swirling in my mind, I believe I identified in a way partially with the fiery spirit of Wuthering Heights, Catherine. A demonic will to live and spiritedness, yes, a disregard and disdain.

Perhaps it is time to stop this piece of writing with a note on the mind-boggling discussions going on in the background - the book of Genesis, Immaculate Conception, Paradise, Vegetarianism - all rolled into one. Coupled with the strains of Carulli's guitar sonatas, make an afternoon totally worthwhile.Till later, or perhaps till the next set of doubts surface! Illusion, was it not the topic? Experienced the illusion of reading a piece of writing? Perhaps you just read it.

The Morning of the fifth of Febraury.

2010-02-05T08:26:00.004+05:30

Nauseous.
Light head.
Calf muscle cramps.
I sit in a chair.
I listen to the birds.
It is past eight.
I blink and wink,
Why?
Because I was up at 5.
Again nauseous.
Mille torbidi pensieri.
Da Ponte..Mozart..Music!
A text book on the table.
A blue pencil by its side.
My hair is still untidy,
My hands still stiff.
I feel the buzz on the city road,
Yet I feel inert,
Thanks to Nehru's prose.
Monday holds an exam,
But today is a Friday morn.
College life - ah, save me, please!
One day away does one real good.
Sitting in a rattan chair,
Feeling the sun on your legs,
It feels nice, but..
The book in hand -
Drives me nuts.
Rhythms, para-rhythms,
Metre and Verse;
Metre is the land,
Rhythm the map,
So read I last night.
I thirst to express myself.
For once, short, jagged,
Miserable lines are doing
What is termed a 'trick'.
I see sunshine patterns
On my old terrace walls,
The sun peeping through
The old mango tree.
My feet trips the stairs
Of cold mosaic,
which resonate with the sounds
Of long ago, when I was but
A light-footed child.
Running around the terrace,
Sitting on the parapet,
much to the worry of
My dear ones,
Plucking a mango flower
And declaring its softness,
Making a little bowl
From the leaf of the Jack tree -
Mornings so pleasant were
Once so passed. Now I wait,
For the newspaper-boy.

I want to sit underneath
the shade of my mango tree,
whose flowers the Spring of Life
Announce.
A spring....yet dark Winter glooms
My life, as I cut a path in darkness.

I smell the Holy Basil,
I take in the beauty Of
The red Asoka flower,
A garden so well-known,
Yet so distant.
What do I know of it?
The croton amma brought
From some distant district,
Stands in the bright sun,
Brilliant colours smiling,
The pink shoe-flower unfurls,
After a cold night spent cuddling.
The green pepper plant twines
Its spicy vines around the tree,
The Bleeding Heart that once
Met it at the top, blooms no more.
The green neem that wafted weary
Afternoons, now is but a stump,
The young Krisna-betel wraps
Himself around it.

I questioned the break of phrase
During my last poetry class,
Now that I do it myself,
it ceases to make a cause.
I am not too fond of free verse,
For then it is hardly verse,
And I am no Eliot to make it verse.
But, on a morning as this,
it suits my mood perfect.
Just now, my head begins to throb,
the left side, to be precise, a dull pain.
I repeat, "It exists not" and it is gone.
Ah, but that all things so simple were,
An that all trees good fruits did bear -
The world would have been like
This little garden, where my friend flits by.
The white little butterfly to whom
The Zebra plant nods his head,
He whom I nursed as a sapling,
Now proud and strong.
Where am I? I am home.
Home with an address?
Perhaps yes, perhaps not.
A home most Infinite, yet definite,
In whom repose from this
Fretless fringe is found,
Where when eyes are turned to Heaven,
A sky so blue and bold is seen,
As if just back from the laundry.

The text is opened,the reverie over,
The mundane banalites of Life begins,
Pulling me back to an existence
That at once, confounds and delights.

More a human being….

2010-02-04T15:56:00.006+05:30

A Novella begs a dedication and this is dedicated to once again my Muse, who inspired it. A Muse with flaring golden hair about the mane and a ferocious roar.

More a human being? Or less myself? The question remains a tussle in my head, as always - between Light and Darkness. One of these decisions decides whether I see light at the end of the tunnel. The fact remains that there always is some light; the difference is made in the path taken to see the light. If there is a black hole, then perhaps I am assured that there has been a folly in comprehending the slip of a hand in producing a slight error. Firstly let me address the slightly, no, wholly, paradoxical situation I find myself in - I have been suffering from an undoubtedly bad streak of writers' block (provided someone attests that what I write is 'writing'). For over three weeks, I have untiringly persuaded myself to give vent to the torrent inside, in vain. When the torrent inside is far too strong for words, expression sometimes becomes impossible in the easiest way. An unfinished sonnet; complete with two quatrains and sketches for the rest, a whole blog on sentimentalism in draft, a sudden wave of impetuous expression about a monumental music session with dad, playing Handel and Leclair together - all remain lost among the ashes, for something prevents me from revisiting them. Not a loss to be mourned though. So my little novella begins in the midst of this …..

"My preoccupation about life as a human is not particularly new as regards me, but it has been revoked and inflamed in thought, in a manner as never before. I owe deep gratitude and love to the person who yoked this thought, which with great difficulty I had pushed back into illusory reality upon first touch with it. It is a choice pretty hard on me – illusory, dreamy worlds sit lightly on my shoulders, the burdens of the world throw chains so heavy on my soul that I question the very reason of my existence. And yet, in the midst of this, a fragmented, anonymous set of people who collect to form 'society', have a particularly disjointed opinion of the character I carry. Some find it amusing, some comical, for some it's a personification of the Absurd Theatre. But for most that I can understand, I exist as a somewhat pathetic mixture of extremities - silent voices of dissent….

I would rather openly confess that I live in a world of my own – an external interference was never accounted for during the creation of that wonderful world which was so long ago that, it was only then that it could have happened so. The world of an innocent baby - I live in that world of a small baby, crawling on all fours, and then standing up adorably to look at the world around with astonishment. Hatred, hypocrisy, and hostility exist not – Love reigns supreme; the security of the mother's gentle arm the great pillar that hoisted the world, the smile of the Father, the charm of the world. The blue sky, the green grass, little butterflies, silky flowers – a world that was a 'magic charm'd encasement' which holds infinite little pleasures which sum up to make Life. The silver stream of a river slithers by, gently soothing and fanning my ways, heavenly Music lulls me asleep to repose in the world of the other dimensions. For all those who envisage me as an intellectual, their suspicions are correct – I am an intellectual, as everyone is – an intellectual not by the multitude of writings that passionately stir greater thoughts, but an intellectual for whom the vast greatness of the ocean of literature opens up a simplicity of thought that is rarely perceived. The delight in seeing the waves of the sea rebound, the astonishment at spending a cool morning watching the dainty flowers unfurl their petals, the sheer joy of being myself – it is in these that I live, thrive and breathe.

Literature, ah! Literature had I spoken of. My little window to the big wide world, my companion, my trustful friend, whose ventures in Life can be taken as Truth. When the Ultimate is revealed, a certain peace descends. So feel I as I declare it. Baring your soul naked is perhaps the least sought after, but most fulfilling paths of self-discovery. In transcending the need to say so, silent tears flow down - the effect akin to being through Purgatorio. It cleanses the soul and vents volcanic lava – it burns to heal. But is that yet another excuse to glorify a tear? Maybe, or perhaps is- a lament for a world that will never be my own, but of whom I will be owned, sucked in mercilessly into the vortex of a whirlwind that I show me a path that may be understood when Salvation is attained. Is it a lament then, or tears of joy? Inasmuch as such an answer confounds me, the question as to whether I should slip out of my illusionary skin of my world to face the world, reality and emotions on the face of it baffles me. I promised myself an answer when I sighed resignation to the fact that I have to make my way through the way as a human being in thought, not just in form. The garb of a baby fox or a baby wolf or a little pussy cat suffice not, I am told; and I am compelled to believe; I have not survived through these years without struggle; silent hopes and aspirations fuelled them, equally great boulders have crashed them. I accept the fact that I survived to see the world through the dents as a miracle, nothing short of that.

When life is lived as a human, however miserable it may be, one sees things anew – not through the wonderstruck eyes of a child, but with the cynical yet ever-hopeful grey spectacles of an adult. Children make these transitions through adolescence to adulthood and change every aspect of their being in accordance with what is assimilated during the years gone by. What a rosy picture of understanding the world these children have! Playtoys for the first stage, books and mischief then are companions, a growing independence then follows, culminated by its triumphant assertion to take the journey out – to become a person of the world. Scripted as it seems, those who followed this rosy path to be of the world perhaps abound. The first picture of misery and despondence they remember may be a fight with a parent on a matter of choice, or a tiff with a friend on the choices of how to spend a summer day. My story reads different, though it is difficult for those who simply see to understand. Those who observe sometimes see through the façade, which crumbles, as it does now, at the gentlest touch. My transition from being a child to an adult was hardly of my free will. But then, whose is? Seriousness and severity of the matters of the world were thrust upon my shoulders when I had not yet understood why my then English teacher struck a whole page of spelling exercises under the pretext that they were not in cursive. A curly handwriting, she asserted, was mature. Those disjointed letters were fit only for pre-kindergarten scrap books. Even as the physical expression of my thought patters, my writing, lapsed into a flowing cursive, my jagged corners were left as they were – with just a silk cloth to cover their rawness. I looked around the room as a young lady of the world – poised, calculated and precise; albeit a watershed of uncontrollable emotion which rarely showed itself to anyone save myself. A deep torment of the soul would sometimes express itself with a great surge of emotions, to which I held up a firm mask. How much more of hypocrisy could a child be capable of? That being said, one of the greatest things I understand now, a decade after these have mellowed and melded, is the miracle that children comprehend emotions and situations more deeply than ever imagined. They have an incredible ability to drink deep from the well of torment and suffering while managing to smile through darkness – the innocence of acceptance. But for that, I know not what I would have done myself.

I see not clearly what I write, a few blobs of salty liquid cloud my sight. In an instant they are wiped away – the mist is cleared. O go on! Unburden the tale that has lived within you as long as you are. Most people imagine a charmed existence of me – they see me in a decent pair of clothes, with curls tossed about, a few books in hand and a smile. I remember not a time when I have myself not felt nice about smiling – it oozes the greatest love in its subdued brilliance. Not the least to say that I lead a miserable life, but miserable life does not ever always imply a certain state of being needy in money or a difficult camaraderie in one's house. The phrase has a multitude of meanings, of which, contradictory existences torment me the most.

I am perhaps in search of a part of me that I never saw. My childhood is something so abstract, that it frames an unusual frame on a screen. A sunny four year old happily drawing flowers with a compass, the irreplaceable waves of love from my family, a license to climb the 'monkey-jump' at kindergarten, being elated at seeing a teacher's seething anger when she sees a paper not quite likely to be an answer to her dictation test – just a few designs here and there – o yes, zero on ten! Cut the scene to a class, fortified by four concrete walls. A teacher stands dictating, myself bent over writing, a friend sitting next to me observing pallid expressions around a tight-lipped mouth. Somewhere, somehow, I had a childhood, yet I did not. Sometimes I have it still and I wish to have it forever. The child in me is a mirage that I seek, find for an instance and then disappears, lurking in the shadows of nothingness, leaving me alone. Reality hurts not sometime, it hurts fulltime. To come to terms with what I express in words has been no mean task – it has thrown up, yet does not cool down anything that it has brought back to memory. For one last time I wish fervently that this shall change me. That is the only reason I can give in laying myself like a lamb, is to come clean of all that has been.

I puzzle myself more than anyone else. It is about an hour since I left this outpouring to pursue a rather hilariously philosophical discussion. The mood though pleasanter, is no less in tune with my soul. I accept joy and pain as two sides of the same coin, it just depends which way it is tossed. What I am, I change not for anybody who whispers of me and who feels I should behave like this or what. Society as concept is a funny monster – it gives me a fair chance to tell them that they matter not to me, and another fair yet unwanted chance to be a pot of tears. What I choose is my business, and I choose neither. Then whither? To the middle path, the path of least resistance. For all the world that an anonymous society is, it cannot alter what boils passionately in the veins. Take heart then, you shall find yourself. You shall find yourself in your pure form as who you are only in solitude. In the company of anybody other than your alter ego, you end up mimicking a certain amount of mannerisms on the outside and thought processes on the inside. Solitude, in thee I thrive. Yet solitude breeds but thoughts and actions unfit for society. What then? I am one person for the society, but I am myself.

In being myself, I am pleasantly pleased to know that one person of the society understood me partially. But far from being complete, it misunderstands me as always. But the need for a serious though and after thought was long called for and a note of sincere gratitude to an erstwhile lion who wishes to assume human thoughts in intercourse with me from now on. A new relation, built on new equations. But is it? Man is animalistic. What care I? I am myself – an egoistic self-centered bookworm. Oh, no more an animal – I am human! I think and am human. A while ago I was a human masking torment under the garb of a cat. At this moment, I mask it under a mask. After all, what were masks meant for? If I cloak all that I truly feel to prove a point that I agree to the maxim that "Man is a social animal", I believe that only 'social' part of the commitment gets fulfilled. In each of us, a dormant personality dominates, it stirs us silently from inside – so deep inside that another soul will never fathom it in the limitations of the three dimensions of this world. Or else, it would have been possible to say like Cathy that "I am Heathcliff". It cannot realize its Beauty in this world – it never can. That is the way of the world. Each one has a mask; to peer through it, an opacity. A soul-to-soul connection as I think of in poetry is but a figment of a perfectionistic hope. Good and bad, all in a mingled yarn; this world sometimes makes me out of place. My wildness of spirit will be for me alone, to revel in its supreme delights. It has made me no better to partake of joy with grumpy adults, for whom, the world no longer is the same. An artist uses idealism for survival, and more often than not in naivety get greatly misunderstood. Take the case of Giacomo Casanova. What is he known as? A Libertine, the world's great seducer. What behind that curtain-draped mind, is the little mind of a child, who retained one part of his childishness to the extreme.

My friend has been a great boon to me. What others hesitate to, he did. Frankness, which is second nature to a naturalist, is a contrived faculty for people of the world. After all, are not men of society more concerned about 'cordial and useful relations in society'? A pathetic existence of sustenance, I must say. They live from day to day, building air castles of petty pretensions, under the painful illusion that they are 'loved'. Loved they are indeed, but is it for what they are? Maybe, may not be. Perhaps I live a dream, a bubble that will soon burst apart. But by fortitude of mind and a need for artistic individuality, an artist forges his way through the world. So hope I too - an individual in the way of the world, being no hypocrite, but being no maverick either."

A little letter to the world from a little creature from another world – that is just what we heard. Let the curtains fall, the drama is over. Another drama, more tangible begins at this instant – a drama called Life. Its multifarious scenes are unknown, its little twists and turns indiscernible. Yet there is Truth to be found, to be experienced and to be assimilated. It begins in earnest. That is what this little girl of the story looks forward to – a quest of the unknown, to find the all-known. Stripped of the emotions that complicate our life, we start to understand the self. Like the infinite stars that twinkle in the sky, like the grains of sand on a vast shore, we too lead non-descript lives. Perhaps we should not. We just cannot be reduced to protoplasmic floating bodies who drink, eat and sleep and vanish from the face of the earth without a trace. Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, so says Milton, voicing them for Phoebus. Yet, striving for meaningfulness continues. It rests in one self. Go, seek it
PS : This obviously has a tinge of sentimentality that borders on the nonsensical, but forgive me, in a novella, an author does put salt and pepper! This is just part of the novella - a deeper probe would inspire the next part. Till then!

A Birthday Present

2010-01-09T23:48:00.004+05:30

A BIRTHDAY PRESENT

Composed in necessity of the fact that I, for no rhyme or reason, find it difficult to believe that the dedicatee was born on a wonderful Christmas day.

Prologue.

A birthday poem is unique indeed,in this case more so –

The dedicatee has the charming liberty of choosing

Every day of the year to read this as a perpetual present,

For a new dawn is a new birth – a new start to Life.

Secretly I envy this, for a 'birthday' is another devious,

Or shall I call it needless contraption of ours –

To mark time, to tally and tick off days religiously.

With this rattrap the girl sitting next to me delights,

In ticking time off my calendar to divine the date –

The supremely beautiful date when the first obnoxious

Wrinkle would appear on my smooth face.

But before another line is penned, my voice yearns

To voice the fact that I loathe modernism,

In spite of the fact that I adore Eliot, unlike many

So-called fanatic modernists. Funny World. Period.

By now the innocent dedicatee might be lamenting

The fact that he is the dedicatee of this rambling!

However let me kindly address ye the question :

Why is it that nice rimes fancy me not this day,

Or is that I fancy not their rhythms dainty and gay?

How beautiful, in the question is an answer found!

So, coming to the point, as is heard all around,

My invocation to the Muses – O sisters Divine,

Is to inspire me to drink upon sacred sweet Wine;

A task easier said and thought than done,

As is always in dealing well with a pun.

On a note well rimed and toned shall I

With good grace devote myself to the eye,

The bull's eye to be more precise – the theme,

Long neglected and forgotten like a dream.

Thus end my efforts to attempt a new take

On a Prologue, of ancient Chaucerian make.

Nonsense, it is believed, is the right(or left) hand

Of the eloquent evergreen Plant.

Musings on Dates and Days

On a day, that by some force of Nature

Was destined, to be set in a manger,

Was the King of Kings to the Earth brought,

Making our Salvation his chosen Lot.

Christmas Day is revered and blessed,

So believe we, though so are the rest.

Why believe I not that you, dearest

Are not a Christmas baby of the nest?

For jest, for fest, cheers to Mr. Donne -

Every little baby is a blessed one,

A day and a date make him not apart,

Though Fate shall make her variable chart.

It matters not about a December night,

Or of June's wholesome daylight,

What is known and was known

Shall always be in Infinity shown :

"A moment, as was your birth,

Was a blessing to this Earth."

Days and nights then ages after

Live we through our mirth and laughter.
*****************FINIS*********************

While dusting the shelf….

2009-12-29T12:09:00.002+05:30

The New Year is round the corner, and that heralds a week of a cleaning the house. Leave alone the house, my shelf is a mess that resembles Poland after World War II. But leafing through the rubble holds its own surprises – such as what I found when I opened a cat-hair layered brown folder, now white. This folder contained papers that belonged to my two week sejour in my first college – so interestingly I chanced upon a sheaf of papers entitled "Composition", which set me wondering what I ever did during 'composition' class. For all the life of me, I can only remember having dreamt and dreamt to glory in any class in any college! So this one dated the 31^st of July 2009 caught my attention. It is marked as "Question Nr. 3" and reads "Write ten sentences on the pleasures of reading." My 'answer' reads as follows :

" 'Reading maketh a full man', so saith Bacon and it could perhaps not be nearer to truth than that. However the pleasures of reading can be addressed only upon taking the first step – the right choice of the book. John Ruskin famously categorized books into two in his discourse, 'The Lamp of Memory' as Books of all Time and Books of Hours. To pick a book that falls into the first category is the equivalent of choosing a friend and a mentor who will last a lifetime. Reading in general sensitizes man – it imparts the capability to experience emotion in an abstract situation and to distill the emotions at the same time. There are sometimes characters from a novel or a poem who profoundly impact our thinking and way of looking and perceiving the world. Personally, the greatest pleasure reading affords is a total escapade into the mind of a character and make own those feeling and emotions and to experience the catharsis myself. If the book happens to be critical work, then the pleasure is certainly different – in that it allows me to exercise my thought process at a different level. A book is an irresistible companion to a rainy day and a cup of coffee and it exerts an influence on the mind that at once calms and enlightens. The pleasures of reading are for me irreplaceable and the gift to appreciate it, a true blessing. "

My ten sentences on such a topic, written on a humid July morning in a stuffy classroom at the orders of a lecturer, who gave us some twenty minutes to churn a paragraph. The simple thought of myself bent over a piece of paper, in a crammed bench seating some six people, and trying to pull this out of imagination makes me bend double with laughter. Bound by four concrete walls, one has no choice but to unscrew the cap of the inkpen and pour one's feelings onto paper. If it were so that Literature classes were more practical – teach Romanticism in connection with what it cries out to, read Wordsworth by the brook or forget these lofty poets, inculcate the love of just being silent to hear the greater voice of Nature, whispering in grandiose yet gentle tones the secrets of the World – the exercise would not be half as futile as it is now. This happens to be my rant on a December morning on seeing a piece of scrap paper – someone tell me, will the examiner ever pass me for that 'composition' exam?

Solino…..on a rain-drenched night

2009-12-08T01:27:00.002+05:30

Over the past few weeks, a strange stirring of poetic emotion filled me as I felt like churning poetry almost every other instant. A wonderful phase, I must admit, though it turns one's general disposition a bit melancholy – almost everything overwhelms in order to undergo a catharsis of sorts in one's innermost being - from the tiniest flower blooming in the wilderness to the miracle of hearing a newborn baby take its first cry, it works a special magic on one's Being – stirring from the depths a need to express something special.

The first set of three sonnets that mark my first, admittedly immature foray into poetry were inspired by a couple of co-incidental incidents over the past one month or so. And in sucking me into that addictive vortex, it made me forget quite a bit about the reality around me while making me painfully aware of it. Why is it ever that poetic feelings are in itself so unsettlingly calming? It makes one lose sleep over it while ironically lulling one to sleep – but in experiencing this paradox does one understand life once again full circle – through poetic terms and conditions.

"Das Leben muss ja weiter gehen"…..This is one lovely phrase in German that has been a constant companion of mine for sometime now. From helping me understand the emphemeral and flickering nature of Life to coming to terms with change in a statically beautiful scenario, this has been a great source of comfort, so to say. Right now memories of a lovely classroom of about eight or nine, some meeting for the first time crowd my memory – a pretty difficult phase in my life it was sure ; I was literally "on the road" without a college after dumping one – facing the prospect of ending without a degree at the end of three years – yet, the smiles these precious people brought to my face are innumerable, the support they gave me unconditional and the love they showered upon me like that of a mother's. So it is with some amount of resistance to change that one prepares to part with such a gathering, yet should Life move on? Yes, but not without fondly remembering these small, little things which have made Life complete in every possible way . Such is the way I remember PPK – mesmeric, as I first described him – but then there are more facets to a person than what is impressed upon one first – scholarly humble (rare, rare catch) yet thirsting for knowledge, with an openmindedness so seldom seen. I am quite aware that he might himself cringe at a few public acknowledgements as this one is, though this in no way was avoidable. A special note of gratitude for being one who took my baby steps into poetry with a grace of Heart and words of encouragement. They shall be treasured always !

Ah, digression! Though writing an essay on the digression in Milton's Lycidas is quite my kind of pastime, it is at times difficult to excuse one's own digressions. In speaking about the numerous experiences that overwhelmed me, one which I hold as stupendously fantastic is an experience that could be indeed comically titled " A Film in the Rain."

Watching a film sitting on near rain-drenched seats is a possibility not particularly welcome, but when the perks include the miracle of watching the grand lightening strike across the bleak, black sky, then it is certainly worth a go. So was the setting for the amphitheatre screening of Fatih Atin's "Solino" (The reasons why I skipped writing on the previous screening of Atin's controversial "Gegen die Wand" are pretty much obscure – the film played on my nerves for days on end without respite!). The film Solino , as the name suggests has a strong Italian flavour to it and in itself was a pretty antithesis to the setting at hand – but nevertheless a perfect example as to why poetic paradoxes can and should exist – the sunny warmth of the Italian scenery contrasted by the chilling wind and the brilliant streaks in the sky .

Solino, as is with Atin's other famous movies, has a underlying thread of the cultural conflict problem in its plot – albeit that it sets the conflict in Italy and Germany, than the more vastly documented Turkish German relation. However what sets the film a class apart from the others is the simplistic complexity of the storyline. An indepth portrayal of the relation between two brothers would seem impossible given the magnitude of the basic storyline, but Atin manages to convey the stories as a narrative on a narrative, giving the film a layered structure, and what is more surprising is that the film even packs a few unusual comic scenes in between, as if to provide comic relief during the narration of the tale of two brothers. The brothers are no Brϋder Grimm to work in harmony – they are a pair of polar opposites with different outlooks and different goals altogether. Yet the strong but predominantly latent affection that binds them is in a way very touching. It is the fulcrum oftheir near bitter rivalry that starts from childhood as a result of the forced forsaking and partaking of a parent's affections that drives the poles of difference with greater force into the soft ground that their relationship is. Atin very subtly peruses through the role of ambition, love , women, acceptance and all social factors in portraying the two brothers – played by two stupendous actors – Barnaby Metschurat and Moritz Bleibtreu.

The majority of what I wanted to express about Solino remain unsaid, but sweet Sleep coulds me. Sometimes it is more beautiful to submit than to oppose.Till then, Tschϋss!

Sonnet Nr. 3 : With His Heart..

2009-11-30T18:13:00.006+05:30

Dedicated to my dearest Nana - the Muse sometimes pays a visit when sorrow engulfs your world -bearing a flaming torch that lights the way saying "Life must go on like the infinite waves on the ocean".

Pressed against His warm heart which did then throb,
Saw I in his face the grace of the full moon’s orb –
Not less radiant than the glorious sun, but more calming ;
Was He in his composed understanding disarming.

Mine did beat silently, silently synchronized with his,
A mutual flow of unspoken thoughts and emotions in bliss –
Transporting our baser senses to a nature more sublime,
Far away from the unforgiving, binding constraints of Time.

Many a time did he in ecstasy his arms round me clasp,
And in joy did we with sweet pleasure and pain gasp –
In it we were complete- in heart and in soul,
As though Infinity was our only true goal.

The wide and wonderful world through his eyes did I see,
A new stir of Life through him and in his Heart will I be.

PS: To all my dear and precious friends who stood by me and consoled me silently - PPK, R., A., S.W., A.J. - words fail when it comes to expressing gratitude.

Sonnet Nr. 2 : Through His Eyes.

2009-11-09T17:14:00.007+05:30

Dedicated once again to the one who inspired this , my Muse - restless till given birth to.

When mine his glowing eyes upon Chance didst meet,
I felt in the deep recess of my heart an intoned beat -
For in that enchanted moment of that fiery dream,
A glistening golden band did on my Hope gleam.

Closed tight, they opened to our inward selves -
In an ardent quest to seek where Love doth dwells;
And therein did we a vast lake of solitude find,
Which in joy we hastened unto us to bind.

Closely wrapp'd moments of Infinity did play in disguise,
As timelessly I did picture the wide World in his eyes -
Through those lightning windows did I see Mankind anew,
Luminant flashes of illusion like dew drops now few.

When one soul into another peeps,to fathom depths far too deep,
Exhilaration from our eyes do beam, as in to an Eternal leap.

PS : Deepest and sincerest thanks to dear AJ, who sat upto an unearthly hour as this was composed - I owe to you deep gratitude for your never ending encouragement.And also to PPK, for reading this almost before the ink dried.

Sonnet Nr. 1 : Into his eyes.

2009-11-04T17:16:00.007+05:30

Dedicated to the one who inspired this - a tiny fragment of fantasy that finally haunted till expressed.

Looking into his charming eyes through my Mind's Eye,
I see them bright and brilliant,though intensely shy-
As if they behind their ardent candour withheld,
Tales till now silent,but now raring to be beheld.

Tales of wonderstruck poetry,hope and joy,
Of unbeknown'st pain,despair and toil -
Yet, as though through a prism distilled,
Was Beauty in all her charms cherished.

Each glance as sharp as a lance,every step a graceful dance,
Love in its cares did upon us then chance -
Tears in overwhelming emotion were shed,
As raindrops from leaves now red.

Those were few moments encased in the never-ending robe of Eternity,
Which conferred our youth-fir'd eyes with the mellowness of Tranquility.

PS : Special thanks to a lovely friend, A J,who sat through the process of composition (albeit online,while I was with a paper and pen) with valuable suggestions and patience.
Photo by : Toni Blay, flickr.com

Perspectives...

2009-11-01T11:12:00.003+05:30

Over the last few weeks, I have been more or less out of place, more literally than even figuratively. Every transitory phase in Life has lessons to impart that no classroom session on Life could ever do - somethings have to be experienced first hand.

The lessons sometimes imply a total change in perspective and thought - starting with a new addition to something that one knew deep down in the hearts of heart. First of all, I need to put on record my admiration for a mesmeric person whose words of encouragement have been unendingly inspiring, P. P. K, the 0011 man - his detailed response to my last piece on Siddharatha, as always, gifted me lot of new aspects to think of - even if a note does not radically alter thinking, I believe that even the incentive to think about that subject once more is a great move. In the same vein, a simple yet intrinsically realistic and touching poem in German, written about a young girl with blood cancer was a fulfilling testimony to the human spirit -which sometimes ends up being latent the more one matures in age - Is maturity then a matter of solely the mind? Perhaps yes, for the stoic acceptance, or rejection of a condition of the body is something only a child, or the mind of a child can do - materialistic reasoning plays no part therein - darum laechelt sie noch.

Music has been the one pillar I turn to always - be it in times of despair or of hope, and a very recent revival of my regular practice as opposed to the erratic and rather eccentric schedule of recent weeks has been a thoroughly welcome change. Music, as is Literature or Art as a whole stands for, is a pure reflection of what the soul feels and has experienced - and in being so,is a fine yardstick to judge one's understanding of Life. What I write today as a young girl of seventeen is bound to be seen through different eyes when I take in more of the world in due course, and what a man of the world reads through my lines is undoubtedly different from what I see in it myself. Josef Szigeti once frowned upon the rather modern tendency to put on record one's interpretation of the Bach Solo Sonatas very early on in the career of a violinist. I see the mellowness of the truth in that statement - for while listening to the opening chord of the G minor Sonata's pensive yet extroverted Adagio played by Nathan Milstein in his late eighties, I understood a whole new world - there is suffering and joy in this world - a chord that I thought was a question was then indeed a question - but infused with the warmth and understanding of world. Every time I approach a Sonata of Bach, I try to see deep into the psychological aspect of the piece - the simplest 'giga' to the towering 'ciaccona'- there is a whole new perspective to be unearthed each time one ponders - the hallmark of true, great Art - perpetually open to interpretation and interpolation.

A long narration of my experience with the Bach Sonatas may be difficult to comprehend when one has not yet heard this magnifient music that reaches the Heavens, but the analogues are almost omnipotent. Roger Scrouton's lovely book on "Beauty" has been on my recent reading list - a further quest to understand the Keatsian dimension of 'Beauty' which has been one of my constant pre-occupations with the poetry of Keats - the other world that he almost always seems to look into and write - a certain veiled mysticism - something that was affirmed by my recent readings of Rumi - was another new vista.

Perhaps it is time to quote Keats and take leave to indulge in the sensuousness of a Keatsian composer - Mendelssohn (while Keats could also be a Mendelssohnian poet - their concepts sometimes are so akin) - "Beauty is truth,truth beauty/ That is all ye know on Earth and all ye need to know." The serenity of the encasement of such a fine thought wraps one with the throes of a dignified passion which has now be channeled to the Violinkonzert, whose nearly obsessive theme perfectly describes an emotion. Bis spaeter, Tschuess!

The Quest continues......

2009-10-18T19:25:00.004+05:30

The rough draft for this piece has been with me over the last few days, but developing thought on the subject always means that one allows time for it to mellow and mature. A few days ago, I had quite an impromptu discussion session on Hesse's Siddhartha with dad, which was nothing short of amazing and thought-provoking. Revisiting a work as profound as Siddhartha brings over almost the same feelings that I encountered the first time I read it, nearly two years ago. It profoundly affects you, never failing to elucidate the question posed by it. One of the reasons why Siddhartha ranks high up on my reading list is because of the manifestation of one rare quality - it speaks tomes in a slim volume. The beauty about the book is that Hesse seems not be doling any grand didactic advice - he just seems to be gently understanding something for himself in the process, which he effectively communicates to the reader : "Live life according to your Lights."

Siddhartha is driven by a narrative that at times could be puzzling for a person who has not an inkling of the brevity of Hesse's writings; Hesse's is a style reminiscent of Eliot's poetry - there is an expansive breadth to even the shortest of phrases. The central theme, so to say, in Siddhartha, deals with the knowledge of the Atman, the indestructible soul - which in the Gita is described as one that " Fire cannot burn, Water cannot wet, Wind cannot dry and Sword cannot clean ." The intensity with which Hesse manages to understand Oriental philosophy and the influence of Buddhist philosophy in shaping Hesse's idea of Indian philosophy are truly remarkable.

The journey of Siddhartha, the young Brahmin man and his friend Govinda and their quest for Wisdom (which is clearly differentiated from Knowledge) is lucidly charted - Hesse introduces some of the core principles of Indian philosophy in Part I (which deals with Siddhartha's initial discontentment and subsequent quest) : renunciation ; in which is embodied the three stages of a man - brahmacharin, grihastha and vanaprastha ; the cycle of silence and suffering to yield truth and foremost the internalised search - meditation, which leads to the understanding of Atman.

"I can think, I can wait , I can fast. " Perhaps lines more clear to their purpose have not been written, but in writing so, Hesse explains his 'internalising, meditative process' - these are the keys to unlocking the nature of Atman, as Siddhartha too reminisces at a later stage, upon having let go of them. As is in every quest, Siddhartha's quest too is strewn with Temptation, to which he yields, learns a great deal and then renounces. Siddhartha, unlike his friend Govinda, whose path to the Wisdom is different, gets sucked into the vortex of Mara - the illusion. He experiences worldly pleasures, knows the love of a woman, Kamala -which is one of the most beautiful parts of the whole book(the poetry of the line when he tells her, "Your blinding beauty do I adore" and so on), gambles, yet somewhere deep down, the discontentment arises - once again to shake him from his day-to-day existence and propel him back into his real purpose, which is again, to answer the question "Who am I?" that is the secret of the Atman ; in short to experience Nirvana. He has known what it is to recognise the Atman, but he knows it not - yet he thirsts to know it - experience it, live it.

In having fallen into the trap of Temptation, Siddhartha debates the effect of virtue and vice on the Atman, only to realise that neither of them affect the indestructible, immortal Atman ; for he says, "In no way is a saint different from a sinner. The saint of today is the sinner of tomorrow and the sinner of today is the saint of tomorrow." As Siddhartha embarks on his quest for Nirvana afresh, Hesse introduces yet another symbolism - that of the river, and therein begins his great discourse on Time.

Hesse now brings us to the understanding that enlightenment or the sartori or mukti or nirvana , which is nothing but an escape from the cycle of birth and death is possible at any of the stages of Life.He painstakingly distinguishes Knowledge and Wisdom in one of the greatest lines in the book, "Knowledge can be communicated, Wisdom cannot." Knowledge then is something which can be accumulated over many lifetimes of the Jeeva, but Wisdom, the ultimate understanding of the Atman - the capacity, as Wordsworth says, to look into the life of things, and brings liberation of the cycle, is achieved only when it is destined and more importantly, when desired.

The wonderful symbolism of the river and the ferryman's speech at the end of the book are the most significant portions of the book - they in a sense, capture the culmination of this quest - the river is a central symbol that represents the unity and eternity of all things in the universe, and in meditating upon the ripples in the water as a stone flits through, Siddhartha awakens to the Wisdom . The wisdom that Time is but illusory, but we divide into present, past and future exist not - it is a reality that is compartmentalised due to the compulsions of the world we live in - narrow in a sense when see not beyond the turn in the road. Eliot's first poem from his 'Four Quartets' wonderfully demonstrates this :
"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation."

At the end, the gentle image of Siddhartha drawing Govinda close and planting a kiss on his forehead is a wonderful way in which Hesse portrays the culmination of the goal for the two men - who started the quest together, but reached the goal through different paths. As Govinda bows his head and contemplates, he realises, the goal is reached, the knowledge of the Atman is now in him and his friend, Siddhartha.

One of the most moving books I have ever read, and one which condenses the vastness of the plain of Indian philosophy in simple language, I had prepared to speak on Siddhartha at an informal gathering , which did not take place due to reasons well beyond me. But an emotional upheaval as one brought upon by Siddhartha needs an outlet. That evening I wept as I wrote the first draft - it is a journey that awakens even the commonest of readers to the truth that the ultimate Quest has to be undertaken.

A Monday morning awaits me in a few hours and the syndrome may hit me lest I take leave and lay in rest my day's work. Till next time, Auf Wiedersehen!

For a brother :)

2009-09-30T22:00:00.002+05:30

The reason behind putting this little caprice of mine is quite unknown to me, though this little jotting on the scrap paper I fetched out of nowhere is particularly close to my heart. It was written, not so long ago, for one of my closest friends - one whom I call more of a brother than a friend. German seems to have been our common tussle-point, which meant he was addressed as "Bruder". His identity perhaps is quite well-known to my school-mates, though I would not mind just referring to him here as "K".

Written in a momentary caprice,in the style of Robert Burns(whose poetry has just set me aflame)with a touch of classic Shellyian modes of disparity,dedicated to my lovely friend and foremost,brother..ja, Bruder.

Blank Verse addressed to the Bruder.
(composed at the computer,while sobbing to Mozart's Requiem in memory of my late cat,though ironically smiling at the turns of phrase.)

To commence,arrest thine respectful address!
For auld lang syne,call thine sister "Schwester"
In all ways that I call thee mine "Bruder"
German decrees it so,and in resplendent verse
Do I commend thee,rhyme it well with sweater,
munch a little more and make it 'shvester'
and lo,thou would've called me 'sister'!

The beginning of our German lessons well anticipated
,took a course,though different,was inspired,
For in blank verse do I sermon,
for reasons that I too fail to comprehend..
whence did such a fancy take me prisoner?

The poor student,now perhaps in sobs,
for the folly of the declaration of readiness,
is alas confounded by his tutor's momentary caprice:
but then perhaps laughs at the extent
to which that wonderful device called the brain can be taxed.

Do have a hearty laugh ,
e per Baccho,dice,if thou needs notes and annotations.
Longer than I though,yet shorter than I could,
thine erste Lektion , German is funny
that the definitive article has gender...
though for thine sake I shall keep it aside till the next flights of poetic fancy catch me!

A month later, a week in college .

2009-09-20T17:29:00.007+05:30

A windy Sunday evening, as the rays of the Sun slowly disappear and the horizon gradually changes colour to a magically light hue of pink, the soft strains of the Farewell Quintet from Cosi Fan Tutte serenade my ears, making my heart skip a beat every now and then. I have almost always wondered as to why this one opera remains closest to my heart, inspite of its relative unpopularity in the playbills of most operahouses, though ironically the heavenly trio, "Soave sia il vento" is a near-permanent feature on every commercially sold-out "Mozart for Relaxation" CD. The tonal colour of this one opera is so special, that perhaps the only phrase that describes it perfectly would be "poetically feminine", in that the judicious use of the sensous winds evokes at once the romance in the wind of Naples, where the opera is set, and the budding adolescence and sensuality of the sisters, Fiordiligi and Dorabella. The sheer poetic optimism that starts the opera is infectious - from the opening trios, with the intense rhaposidic shaping of "Una bella serenata", to "Soave sia il vento" and finally the "voci d'amor" that Ferrando hears in his near-revenge aria "Tradito, schernito" which finally turns out to be an unequivocal outpouring of love - but to which of the sisters is ambiguous.

The plot of Cosi is one that provides an ample vehicle for the poetic genius of Lorenzo da Ponte, working on his only originally-thought-out and conceived operatic plot for Mozart. The intense feelings condensed in the aria for Ferrando (who happens to be the centre of this opera, along with Fiordiligi), "Un'aura amorosa" is a poetic idealism of love, which is ultimately proven to be but a myth, as Don Alfonso says, " It is like the Arabian phoenix, believed to exist without reason or logic". Here I prefer to use a neutral word "it" instead of the literal translation of the aria which speaks of the concept of the fidelty of women, because I firmly have reason to believe that both the composer and the poet, through their respective media, intend to convey more than the rather crude "infidelta della femine". It is a fallacy to restrict a deep psychological study of the characters to just the two ladies, the men Ferrando and Guglielmo, both present some very fascinating character studies too - Guglielmo's straightforward persona, etched very beautifully in his music, as opposed to the very florid tenor lines of Ferrando, is painted in a certain macho style, whose male ego and pride seems to be the worst calamity of the whole exercise.

The plot ,though seemingly frivolous at the outset, is a theme as pertinent as any 18 c. drama by Beaumarchais or Marivaux, and in context is almost a contemporary of Laclos' "Les Liasons dangereux" - a ruthless, calculated plotting of the "fall", which, Guglielmo at first hesitates, and then calls "l'honori di soldati" to present his case to Dorabella ; which Ferrando, who almost begins in a score-settling rivalry with Guglielmo, turns to a sincere outpouring of love when he falls back to the seductive A major from the harmonically emboldned shift to C major to sing, "Volgi a me" to Fiordiligi, with whom Mozart keeps painting more musical congruence. Perhaps it is only the divine genius of Mozart that could vest such beauty in the ensuing Toast canon, with three voices singing the praises of Love in unison, while Guglielmo, whom Love seems to have deserted, mumbles a couple of curses on the three who toast to Love and its beauty.

Voila, I have been brought back to reality as the closing chords of the Cosi bring the curtain down on this exquisite drama of love and idealism. It is testimony to the magic of this music that I have been particularly oblivious of what I have written so far and the topic I had in mind! It simply absorbs you into the centre of action and the music makes your heart beat with every sentiment that is voiced.

During the one long month that has steathily elapsed since I last wrote a blog, I have returned to my erstwhile status of being a college-going student of English Literature, albeit in another college, which happens to be the Womens College, under the shade of a couple of autumnal trees. So far the experience has been encouraging and I have much to take heart. Regular college just implies one another thing for me, exams at the end of this academic year - I particularly do not fancy writing a literature paper under a fixed time constraint of some 3 hours in a strictly invigilated examination hall ; Milton and Mozart are not great companions for an exam. Yet, optimism prevails - the final chorus of the Cosi has this lovely piece of advice -"Fortunato l'uom che prende Ogni cosa pel buon verso, E tra i casi e le vicende Da ragion guidar si fa. Quel che suole altrui far piangere Fia per lui cagion di riso, E del mondo in mezzo ai turbini Bella calma proverà." (The essence is, "Fortune is the man who can take a pinch of bad along with the good" )

On a totally different, yet connected note, today's session of practice on Mozart's Adagio from the Violinkonzert Nr. 3 in G, threw up some surprises, or rather concious realisations of what has been happening unknowingly over a long period of time - I, for the first time, felt that this music makes your breath rise and fall along with it -stupendous experience! And I have started to slowly trying to sample a little of 60s music - a touch of the Beatles, thanks to the Audio Club at College! And yet another surprise there too - the song Norwegian Wood, uncannily reminded me of a phrase from Tchaikovsky's Manfred Symphony, if my memory serves me right! Music, whatever name you try to classify, is a manifestation of the Muses' Inspiration. Heartening thought!

I have written long enough for working up an appetite to be back with my violin, my absolute soulmate. So, bis dann!

PS : Forgive me if I keep quoting snippets in the original Italian; the resonance of that tongue is a bit too beautiful to be compromised, and there is always Google Translator to rescue! Also, familiarity with the plot of Cosi is always an added advantage before listening to the score. And confusing as it may seem, it is always worth reading for a good laugh at the end.

A Battle for Perfectionism

2009-08-19T10:46:00.006+05:30

Life is a perpetual battle for an unattainable goal - a goal mostly in sight, yet so far off ; tantalising the mind like the tortures of Hell that Dante at times describes graphically. The more you push upwards, the more backwards things seem to roll. When things seem not to have a co-efficient of friction to propel them on the track steadily, life can seem a bitter battle. The Clash of Light and Darkness, though the symbolic drapes of Night at times are more soothing than the harsh heat of the simmering Sun, seemingly cloud every instant of your being. Yet, there is some Beauty, as Keats intones, that removes the pall of gloom from the weary Earth.

The blossoming flowers, the nodding buds and the glowing blooms, all are a picture of Spring, of a rejuvenation, reinventing Earth from Winter's scrawny, sinister and sombre theatre.

Perfection, being my topic of musing today, has forced me to think over and start a process of writing, editing and cutting this journal over the past two days,reducing its size from a three page scribble to this two paragraph skittle. That in itself, reminded me of that quest; why did I do so? The Quest, for something of a form unmistakably appealing and perfect. But Life is fragile, a vase beautiful to look at but painful to gather the shards. Perhaps, what is mortal and human should remain so, however, with the everlasting yearning to reach in to the realm that gives peace to the mind, a sweet bower of repose and dreams.

Changes and still more changes.

2009-08-09T12:44:00.006+05:30

With each passing day, the flickering nature of life and all that it encompasses becomes clearer and clearer to me. Every aspect of life that I once thought constant now shows its uncertainty. But, imagine a life so constant...immediately, what you love turns stale and unwanted. Change, inevitably brings showers, both sweet and sour but life must go on, undeterred, only fortified by what the rite of change brings.

The past month has been one of sorts for me and though it is true that suffering inspires, I believe unwanted suffering does not. I was pleasantly surprised and genuinely touched by the fact that a lot of friends follow my journal periodically! I am really sorry for not being a punctual blogger...Blogging for me is an art which should be exhibited only if it really satisfactory.

The events in the past month have been nothing short of life-changing, a few positive, most depressing.
I finally started attending college, joining for my graduation course in English Literature, perhaps the only choice taken of my own volition in that venture. College was something, that perhaps I was not totally prepared for, but then what in life is a person prepared for? I have seen one of the most beautiful things in my life just sweep me off my feet without the tiniest whiff of it being around the corner...therein is played out this one drama that is life, charted by fate and played out by destiny.

Perhaps it is better that nothing more is said about this one chapter of my life till the situation gets better. So, when artistic optimism prevails, I shall move on to something very close to my heart - something that simply shattered the glass view I had of life. Each time I take a seat to watch a movie, I am grateful that this medium, whose commercial stream I readily scorn, has still certain gems worth discovering. Last Saturday, the lovely amphitheatre of the Goethe Zentrum again hosted a film screening as a part of the Film Festival, and I had the good luck of again watching the film with a friend. Though I had tears streaming down my face during the greater part of the film ( and it is to be noted that though not hard-hearted, I need to be tugged at my heart-strings for that melancholy to be let loose), I can be sure that that would have been the case with most of the others too.

Sophie Scholl, the film on the real-life heroine and martyr of the White Rose Rebellion during the Nazi rule, was so intrinsically touching and beautiful. The scene where she stoutly defends her freedom and that of her people, is a statement that knows no ages. "Freedom is my right and my people and I shall have it!" Quite surprisingly, one of the most touching scenes where I was quite visibly sobbing was the scene where Sophie's mother touches her daughter's cheek in a bid to say one last farewell and says with a mixed tone of stoicism and sentimentality, " My little girl did right...my little girl wont come through that door again.." and then trails off. That is all that is needed to set ablaze that maternal feeling. One of the most thought- provoking films I have ever seen, a testimonial to the universality of Freedom and Love.

Anymore than this tonight and I may lose one more night's sleep.....Before leaving, I would love to thank all my schoolmates for giving me some of the best years of my life and also one special moment...August 8th was indeed lovely, to put it simplistically.Well,I pray that the Muses summon me more often and also keep Hardwork as a companion.....Bis dann, Tschüss!

Im Juli...ja, im Juli hab'ich Liebe gefunden.

2009-07-12T17:33:00.006+05:30

This one blog has been in the pipeline for over a week for reasons better known to myself than anybody else. I had set my mind upon blogging upon one fantastic film, "Im Juli", after catching a screening at the Goethe-Zentrum as a part of the inaugural German Film Club, as the film struck me as really simplistically beautiful. As was with Nirgendwo in Afrika, reminiscing on the film helps mellow the themes and takes away the rough edges you feel in the beginning.

The evening was more cold than cool and was special due to the presence of one of my really good friends. The present he gave me was special too , as specially requested by me - a leaf with his dog's teeth and claw prints.

The film "Im Juli" is at once a romantic, philosophic, tenderly moving story of two people moving towards the one goal - Love. It is poignant in that it portrays the way in which a person can miss out on the greatest emotion that the human heart can house by a whisker. The symbolism of the sun is the central idea around which the film revolves. Without this giver of light and energy which constitutes life, where would we be?

The subtle comedy that Fatih Atin brings into the movie is truly remarkable - it is woven through the narrative, almost as if to show the omnipotent presence of comedy even in tragedy. So much that, it makes us understand and hope that the Life is not always bad. The string of Fate and Destiny that "Im Juli" so rightly puts in perspective is a chain that most people take for granted. The small beauties in life - a small bicker, a cute patch-up - seem to fade into the trivial when seen in the larger perspective, but do indeed constitute that chain.

The most touching part of the film happened to be the closing scene - again symbolic, yet one which could be missed rather too easily. When Juli keeps saying something amidst the din of traffic, Daniel just says back " I can't hear you" , till she tells him into his ear ; "I love you". The fact is these three lovely, magical words often get drowned in the din of our life - to hear it, you have to listen carefully, and as is always, worth lowering din in the inner ear to hear subtilities.

So, till I find myself coming across something that strikes me straight at the heart and makes it skip a beat ( Seneca's Andromache scene did it, and more about Senecian tragedy is kept for later). As for now, it is a Tschuess!

A time for poesie

2009-07-04T11:52:00.003+05:30

Poesie, sometimes is inspired when you least expect it.
It is not with a specific intent of writing anything that I find myself brought here.
In that should I affirm that at times,this is my state of mind.
Good and bad - a mingled yarn of feelings woven in me.

Elation and depression sometimes sit side-by-side;
Mocking and taunting me -
A rousing Handelian chorus here;
A melancholy phrase there .
Nothing could tear apart a heart more -
A lonely pup on the street;
My heart skips a beat and flutters.

Should everything be so cruel?
I catch a glimpse of the joy in his face -
Is it only joy?
Tears streak it too.
That brings life a full circle.
Good and bad - a mingled yarn;
yes,Shakespeare did know better.

Muddled musings on hope and despair.

2009-06-30T22:39:00.003+05:30

My cats are curled up in their beds ; Nikki and Ferra are happily entwined and White Neck on the printer just adds to the picture of comfort and coziness inside the house that contrasts sharply with the dark, gloomy rainy night outside. Soft strains of Händel's ethereal duet from L'Allegro are serenading my ears, and for one exotic moment, I am at peace with the world.

Life is a cosmic dance, eternally changing and rejuvenated. Flux is what that governs it and what man sees may not be even reality - illusion may seem reality from a certain perspective. In such a world, ought we to take anything for granted? This question that I now raise seems totally at odds with the state in which I declared I was in, but therein lies the beauty of the phrase, " exotic moment" - it was all but a moment - a fleeting sensation that all was well around me. But our lives seem to be crowded with doubts - from the trivial and banal to the more philosophical and then, doubts cease to be doubts - they manifest themselves as formidable questions - " Who are you?" and " What is you purpose on Earth?" , are the most powerful, life-changing questions a man can ask himself.

Chekov's elucidation as to the art of an Artist is remarkable in that it clarifies one of the most elusive fragments of thought regarding the role of an Artist. Is it in answering questions that are posed or is it in posing formidable questions? I without doubt agree with Chekov in that the Artist has fulfilled his role by posing the question; but not just a question - but as he says, 'a correctly formulated question.' A work of Art, to quote Chekov, may be fully satisfying, like in Pushkin's 'Evengeny Onegin' - not because any questions are answered, but by virtue of the fact that all the questions are correctly formulated. In reference to my earlier writings on my experiences with the music of Bach and Mozart, I should say that this statement very beautifully gives an explanation as to why the experience turns out to be fully satisfactory even without one being able to comprehend the reason.

The music of Bach at times can seems like fluid mathematics - textbook writings that implement the rigid theories of fugal writing and counterpoint; yet there is an all-enveloping halo that permeates the rigidness to give it a fluidity that radiates genius. While studying Bach for the very first time, I had the good luck of starting my work by preparing the Adagio of the G-minor Sonata . The freedom of studying with myself gave me the opportunity of working on this piece for a period of time that any teacher would have considered ridiculous - I felt, eat, drank, and experienced Bach for the next two to three months without respite, perhaps only occasionally venturing to appreciate the sheer simplistic beauty of a Handel or Mozart Sonata. Apart from that, my situation could be best compared to that of a weary traveller in a desert - Bach was like the oasis I was looking for from the onset of the journey and when I saw it, I drank as though I had never known water. For that matter, if I was given one more chance to re-live a single musical experience, it would be listening to the Ciaccona for the very first time - the sheer grandeur, majesty, pathos, power and passion - ah! but to feel all these surging through at once!

"Great poetry can communicate before it is understood.", so said T.S. Eliot in his famed 'Essays and Criticisms'. It could not be more true - many a time I have felt humbled by a piece of Art ( what Eliot termed 'poetry' can be, by artistic license, easily extended to 'Art' ) without grasping its meaning. Understanding art and its appreciation, I have come to realise, is not a flash or a split-second comprehension, it never can be - it is a search, a quest - for the answer to the correctly formulated question, that lasts a lifetime.

So where do Hope and Despair figure? These complementary emotions seem to figure almost everywhere in Life, making Life the most beautiful example of Chiaroscuro -Light and Darkness.

(Chiaroscuro in Art - this delicately coloured painting of Jan Both is an exemplary example of the effect)

Hope is a emotion that can be variedly interpreted. For some, it is the emotion that makes all other emotions bearable, on the other hand, Nietzsche held it as the most evil of them as it causes the greatest torment. For each individual, hope is individualistically defined. It is one's outlook on the cycle of life - there is a clear distinction between the optimism and hope one sees in life - in hope is embodied a human heart that beats and feels; optimism, for me, can be a sole product of the mind too. When one hopes, there is expectation; when one is left with only hope, does it persist in being hope or a rose-thorn? Hope, it seems, is a double-edged sword - caressing and cutting, inspiring and depressing.

There are times in life when to hope seems impossible and unthinkable, yet deep in the recesses of our soul, there burns unextinguished a hope for salvation. Even when the whole world turns upside down for a person, there is this latent emotion that keeps life going on - one of those cases where man lives without knowing why he does so, yet being propelled with conviction as though the answer was writ upon him - such are the ways of Life.

As the Night drapes her dark blanket over the sleeping Earth, I too find myself drawn in. Sweet slumber awaits me and I take leave till the Muses pay me a visit soon. Till then, Tschüss!!

Simplicity, Bach and Life.

2009-06-23T16:09:00.004+05:30

Simplicity and Complexity - did I not address this quite recently? Well, elsewhere. My last blog seemed to have elicited the most varied opinions I could have thought of - and that is certainly something I appreciate. The starting point for this topic is simplicity; not that I plan to elucidate such a undefined topic, on the other hand, I have had my own journey in dealing with the concept of simplicity and that is where I start today.

One good friend who normally complains that he never understands anything more than the opening line or sometimes a little less, got back jubilantly saying that he understood everything and hence it just was not up to the mark. Human fallacies certainly accorded, is simplicity in itself a crime?

Being a musician, the first and foremost thought that strikes when this topic comes is the name Mozart. Thankfully, I need not venture to explain more. Anybody who has heard that too-oft played-and-ruined gem called "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" that found its way to a being telephone call tune would credit Mozart with a genuine flair for combining wit with delicacy - the gift that is recognised as one of the hallmarks of this genius. His music for me represents the pinnacle of expressing the most complex emotions through the most subtle, though seemingly disarmingly simple medium. " In his simplicity lies hidden the most beautiful complexities", so said Saul Bellow once - could not be more apt. There certainly could be a thought most complex ingrained in the most simplistic words. For a poet, nothing less than Hardy's poetry would fit that bill. Simplicity seem to be their calling card, yet the depths of human emotion that Hardy can traverse within the most simple phrases is astounding. 'Within' perhaps is not the grammatically correct preposition to be used, but that poetry is what is held enchanted between the stillness of the words is what appeals to me the most.
In the same way, if someone ever asked me which music I find the most beautiful; however tempted I may be to wax eloquent on the ecstasies of listening and playing Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, Bach (of whom I have something to write upon today)and the pantheon of greats ; the real answer is "Silence". Silence and solitude let you hear the most wonderful music you can ask for - in the stillness of the baser world around you , you give yourself a chance to open your ears to the glories of the Heavens above - that realisation plays the greatest music.

When I play music ( as of now I do not concertise, thankfully) it is not the period when I play and execute my music that affects me the most; its is quite surprisingly the silence that greets me after the last bow is drawn. You can feel what you have offered spirally to its destination - that is the greatest satisfaction a musician can get. People often mistake the reason why artists concertise - they offer not the music to the audience; more or less, a performance, however formal or informal the occasion is treated with the same seriousness - for making music so to say, is a direct communion with the One above. ( The question whether atheists also play music and experience the same is quite obviously different.) The audience serve to be people to whom this great experience is to be shared. The greatest achievement for an artist then is to impress the devotion in his Music and Art on his audience - in doing so, one of the most simple yet intrinsically complex emotion is conveyed - Love. Does there ever exist love without devotion or devotion without love?

All in all, my radical change in perspective regarding simplicity started with Mozart. As a child, I adored his music - there was something so innocent and playful that no child can afford to dislike him. Yet there was a strange contradiction in me that I still have not been able to figure out - I seemingly liked Beethoven a lot more! Perhaps the more continuous exposure to violinistic music also played a part, in that the Beethoven Violinkonzert without an iota of doubt is one of the high points of the classical tradition of music - but that just is not a complete reason - in what way do Mozart's lovely Violin Concerti like the Nr. 3 or Nr. 5 fall short?

After spending quite a considerable time ( hardly considerable in a larger scale, but at least with regard to my 7 or 8 years of serious study of the King of Instruments ) on the Mozartian repertoire, I can only look up above and proclaim the glory of the Creator for having provided inspiration for music that touches the Heavens. Mozart's striking simplicity, then I conclude, was something I valued less than the veiled phrases and long flowing lines of Beethoven, whose music no matter what remains as close to my heart as Mozart's. The human mind then selectively likes complexity over simplicity - for complexity for some absurd reason,as Nietzsche says ( in his Man Alone with Himself) is related with greatness of thought. (The reverse situation may also exist, as always - simplicity may may be sheer mediocrity while complexity is great or both may exist in harmony together).
(Bach's manuscripts sometimes seem like a work of Art in themselves - here seen is the opening Agadio of the G minor Sonata, another one of my perennial favourites)

Back to Bach. Bach's music has been one of the greatest sources of inspiration to me as a human being. As Robert Schumann aptly said, " Western music owes to Bach as much as a Religion owes to its founder". For most violinists, the Six Solo Sonatas and Partitas represent the very pinnacle of writing for the violin - there is everything that you need - music that undeniably endured the test of time, great virtuosity that is Paganinian and musical structure that defines what Baroque is. The Partita Nr. 2 in D-minor, perhaps has been one of the most feted pieces in the whole of the violin literature - for its crown is the great Ciaconna - sitting atop four already astounding movements, its lofty opening bars send a shiver down the spine - it just exudes greatness. Perhaps as always, I am forced to leave this blog with the promise that I will return to this topic next time, and this time it will be a promise well kept! Bach's music is like the oasis a traveller finds in the desert - you could drink from it as if your whole depended on it. All that i wanted to say about the Ciaconna could be summed up for one final sentence - " I knew from the very first instance I set my eyes upon the music and laid my bow to the strings that this journey would be something special - the first chord assured me - it was to be one for a lifetime. I am more than happy to have begun that quest at long last - it will grow with me, it will laugh with me, it will cry with me; I know it will be mine. "

Confusion is at times a necessity.

2009-06-19T18:51:00.004+05:30

Confusion, a necessity? It took me quite some time to come to terms with the entity that is Confusion - an all-encompassing emotion that takes control without warning. To be frank, I had never properly been faced by 'her' till recent times. Even in the past when people around me thought I would be caught up in the throes of confusion pains, I escaped unscathed - but not for long; everything in life makes its presence undeniably felt at least once. During the decision making phase that succeeded my year 10 results, I quite shocked my mother by spontaneously declaring that I would study the natural sciences and mathematics. In as much as she had expected me to continue with science as per my wishes, the choice to studying biology were announced all of a sudden in front of the biology faculty with a conviction from deep inside. It proved me right and I thoroughly enjoyed the whole time I spent studying all that I chose to study.

It is precisely the want of that conviction that brings about confusion. The confusion I am addressing here ought not to be confused with the pathological sense of the word that encompasses a myriad of other complexities, but rather in the simplest sense in which we associate confusion. Confusion, as a concept, sub-consciously exists naturally and helps us too, but when it goes to the extreme, then it is nothing short of madness.

The period of confused indecision I went through while coming to terms with facts, realities and limitations to finally decide my course of study as an undergraduate was harrowing. But in retrospect, I was reflecting on the void the lack of such a period would have left in me - the absence of thinking over in desperation about all that mattered to me in this world and pondering the necessity of a lot of things that I always felt important but have hitherto lost any significance whatsoever in my day-to-day life.

Confusion becomes confounded when a mingled yarn of good and bad, as to quote Shakespeare, is set before you. I was faced with more questions than just what to study - there were questions of where, when and what for to be answered. Once when the love of science sprang up all of a sudden and I felt like studying science for good, I called up Renjith. What he told me in terms of how to decide was lot more important than what I asked him. He was so cool and composed as opposed to my hot-headed speech that was just bursting out in torrents; that I immediately sensed that there was something amiss in my thinking process - well, at least with respect to this process. I carried this little piece of advice that ironically, you would expect anybody to say, but no one ever does - I was lucky somebody told me. Sleeping over the problem, I understood that eliminating that demon called peer-pressure made my job a lot easier than I ever thought it could be. The more you understand that your purpose in life is to fulfill your destiny and not fulfilling another person's wishful fate, the freer you are in your thinking.

I woke up one evening feeling an indescribable sense of completeness - a strange conviction that said to me that I should pursue what gave supreme happiness and joy and not something with a bigger, distantly placed objective of future plans and so on. There was conviction that said that whatever is done with both heart and soul immersed in it, would bear fruit - if not in terms in a worldly sense, at least in a spiritual, creative, infinitely greater sense. I am leaving it undeclared whether my decision has been in favour of science or literature - for that matter, in the hearts or hearts, I still house a tiny sense of doubt - but without that, would have ventured to write this?

All in all, the lines that have made the greatest sense to me in the past one month or so have been from Dante's Paradiso : " IN HIS WILL, LIES OUR PEACE." There couldn't have been a phrase more well-phrased than that to convey that sentiment and for the period of indecision, lines 32-48 from Canto II of the Inferno were balm for me. Dante attributes Virgil to say that cowardice was the root of all indecision that man faces. Indeed, it is the fear of that one wrong step - but has a child ever learnt to walk without stumbling once?

As the ethereal strains of the introduction of the great Act II sextet of Donizetti's Lucia engulf me, its time to bid goodbye till next time. Tschüss!

Apres longtemps.....

2009-06-07T21:16:00.005+05:30

I have abstained from writing here for a seemingly a long period of time - nearly a month. However, in the past three or four weeks, I have been at virtual crossroads. So many important decisions to be taken, heartburn over things to be sacrificed and most importantly the fear of taking that one wrong step that could, in an unfortunate event deign one to a bottomless pit of hopelessness and despair ; for choosing a path of study, though not always necessarily, more often than not decides the path one follows later in life.I have been so miserably short of time that I have not even mentioned the wonderful stint I had at the Goethe-Zentrum with the children . It was one of the most beautiful phases I have been through - after two harrowing months of examinations and practicals and the untimely demise of dear Trost, there I was - jostling with the children and having fun like a kid once again - in my own way - for once that phase is passed we relive it in a totally different way - the pressures of life sit rather heavily with each passing year. The experience of witnessing the joy, innocence and vitality of childhood before my eyes and partaking in their feast of energy shall be treasured memories - made truly exceptional because of the simply superlative that encircled me. Take for instance a really lovely young lady - so full of enthusiasm and energy and a resplendent 'Good Morning' smile, that when she left Goethe-Zentrum I wrote out a poem for her. The times I spent discussing the length and breadth of English literature with her as time permitted were truly memorable; after all, it was a tome of Homer that set us talking in the first place. Our mutual love for that 'handsome young man' Keats was a further source of pleasure - our morning meeting would almost always involve an exchange of a collection of Keats' poetry that would be followed by my latest ruminations on Keats' 'Lamia', which almost always moves me to tears as does the eloquent ottava rima jewel,'Isabella'.

Medieval literature has always fascinated me and the three crowns of Italian literature more so - Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. The infinitely amusing and sparkling wit of Boccaccio's Decameron (such that it give even Chaucer inspiration for his Canterbury Tales) has been a constant bedside companion for the past four or five months. Reading the Boccaccian rendition of the 'Isabella' story was a eye-opener that made me realise the concept of 'Romanticism' more than ever - not that Boccaccio was ever Romantic in his story telling ( more ‘eloquent’ as Keats himself calls him) , but the eloquence that Keats imparts to the tragic legend of Isabella and Lorenzo can be at once so touching that it never fails to bring tears to my eyes. The more and more of Keats I read, the more I become convinced of the towering impact of conveying ‘Romanticism’ through ‘Classicism’; which in more ways than one remains etched in your heart than Byronic sweeps of what may be termed as true ‘Romanticism’.

"The ancient harps have said,
Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord ;
If Love impersonate was ever dead,
Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d.
T’was love; cold,-dead indeed,but not dethroned.”

These may not be the most oft-quoted lines from this famous poem, but can rank among some of the most beautiful in the English language – the bereavement of Isabella is depicted with a restraint more classical than Romantic here, yet Romantic at the very core of it.

Keats, of course, has been one of the poets I turn to in joy and despair – the ‘other’ world that Keats constantly seems to connect with always gives me reason to go through the weary roll of out life on Earth. The sweet bower of sleep and repose that he conjures for world-weary people and hope that some shape of beauty shall remove the impenetrable pall of darkness and gloominess from our lives sometimes takes greater significance and poignancy when all you see around you is darkness.

In the beginning there was darkness and then He said, ‘Let thee be Light’ and there was light.At this moment, I am in search of this light that illuminates the very recesses of out being and drives away darkness. I am glad that I am not alone in my quest – I never will be and never would have been either.

My friend with whom I have been having a continuation of my literary ventures, albeit in a modified sense that life in general takes precedence, once uttered a phrase that set me thinking more than I imagined it would. One morning recounting a routine adolescent strife with my parents with clouds of colleges and courses gathering coulombic charges, I quite amusingly came to my senses and understood the silly reason behind that outburst – frustration and anticipation at filling my first college form that finally took form of a bout of unwanted expenditure of nervous energy. He intoned a loaded yet simplistically lovely phrase in a tone of tragicomedy, ‘You have not yet seen life’. That struck me first funny and then by turns,profound. Thinking about it carefully, I was caught with more reasons to see myself as a small child, not much different from the five year old who loved to be carried about in dad’s arms – still longing for that complete security and dependence, in spite of a paradoxical adolescent yearning to be independent and self-sufficient.

All the same, it is a fact of life that you have to grow up and take decisions for your own sake. What is going to happen has already been pre-ordained in the Heavens above; we just make Fate an excuse to fulfill our Destiny. And as far as that question was concerned, I think I came round to concluding that no one ever sees life ahead of them; everyone makes that trial-and-error cliche an experience. It is an inevitable rite in the passage of life and while saying this, it would be unfair not to thank that wonderous opening line from Lawrence's "Lady Chatterley's Lover" : "Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically." Take it in the most optimistic spirit possible for the moment. Reading Lawrence has been an experience of a lifetime and I shall certainly return to that topic when the Muse brings me back here, which I hope shall not be too far off. Till this time,believe me, I never understood that the Muse does not keep company with people who are emotionally disturbed and in a state of turbidity - there is a clear distinction - She keeps company with only artists who are emotionally charged. Till then!

Rain,Violin and Books.

2009-05-12T21:52:00.008+05:30

Tonight as I am sitting down to blog, I am quite happy. Even though it has not yet rained properly, atleast the heavens opened a little to allow a good drizzle for the parched Earth.

After a long time, the past few days have afforded some rewarding sessions with my violin. Working through the pages of a Mozart adagio is an out-of-the-world experience ; overwhelming the violinist with the sheer depth and range of emotion to be conveyed and lies latent and hidden between the little notes.

(seen through hazy eyes - a practice session rarely leaves me without a sense of being overwhelmed by the beauty of what I have in my hands.)

Mozart's Violinkonzert Nr. 5 has always been one of my favourite concertos - elegant, inately musical and sparkling with wit and style. But what interests me the most is the layers of emotions and depth that lies buried under the beauty and charm of the outer movements. It could be easily one of the most operatic of all of Mozart's instrumental writings - starting with the beautiful little adagio that brings in the violin after the first tutti. And in sensous beauty,it is second to none - Mozart's beautifully chosen scale colours give the instrument some of the greatest passages of sensous beauty - far ahead of its time - almost touching Romanticism, through classicism - just the way Keats was to do with his poetry.

The brilliant Allegro aperto, which unfortunately I feel most violinists mistake for a military march because of the first thema,which when played in judicious tempo is something far removed from all of that , is one of those sublime movement of characteristic Mozartian charm and surprises.

Over the course of the two years I have spent studying other repertoire after this Mozart (including lot more of the Mozartian repertoire) ,this is one concerto is an almost permanent feature in my daily practice log. The day doesn't seem to be complete without playing that heavenly adagio - anyone who doesn't believe in inspiration and such should listen to this movement.

Today's blog is going to end abruptly. The more I think about this music,the more I feel like running to my violin and playing it. That sentiment is getting the better of me. Till then!

Summer ?

2009-05-11T19:21:00.003+05:30

Once in a while, I presume it is alright to use a blog to appeal to Nature in terms most forthright.

To be really frank, I am fed up of getting baked in the summer heat. There is absolutely NO respite - a few evenings spent in the cool air of the sea were nice but even that is getting hot.

I need rain. The monsoon is the most beautiful time in the seasonal cycle here and I just can't wait for it. Why is it so distant? I seem not to hear even a rumble !

A summer shower, we have been cruelly denied - to delay the monsoon is like serving a death sentence.

This heat is too cruel. My most fragmented thoughts - for the heat does not provide you the luxury of thinking in a straight line. And I should state that I particularly despise air conditioners. Even the fans seem miserable - rather sadistic in whirling hot air all over the place.

Wait and Hope. Dumas' famous closing line of the Counte of Monte Cristo - works here too,I presume - provided I am preserved in one shape till the rains come.

A day in the life of man.

2009-05-09T22:34:00.005+05:30

The title for today's blog bolted out of the blue while I was midway through dinner, presumably pondering over a thousand things that have been giving me reasons to reflect and probe deeper.

Ever since my day at the beach with dad, my thinking has been more in line with Khayyam's Rubaiyat (which is on my current reading list) than ever before. The vastness and infinity that the sea represents is at times overwhelming. Standing there, you appreciate the difference between microscopic and macroscopic for real. It is spine-chilling and awe-inspiring at once , to quote dad's notes for Shelley. One of the lovely things he said while walking me across the beach was ,'I have always felt that the sea has a conciousness of its own. It intrinsically knows who loves it and responds.' and he quoted Masefield's beautiful poem 'Sea Fever' to give voice to his own longing to be back near the sea.Sometimes you are left speechless - it was one of those moments.

Walking through the sand,you realise that you too are just a grain of sand in this wide and vast universe. Which brings me to the question that every man should ask at least once in his life to make it meaningful - 'What is the purpose of this life on Earth?'. I have asked myself this question umpteen number of times and each time the answer keeps getting better. However , the period of introspection that precedes it can be emotionally tumultuous - flashes of bleak depression to high spirits.

Quite interestingly, while being wetted by the water and alternatively holding dad's hand tight, the luminous strains of 'O namelose Freunde' streaked my mind's ear - I have not felt anything that satisfactory in the near past. The feeling of freedom and joy is universal - Beethoven's Fidelio calls out to this sentiment while presenting hope for a redeemed humanity through its idealism. During my states of despondency, Mozart and Beethoven are the composers I instinctively turn to , Beethoven more so. There is a palpable struggle with the mundane roll of life to reach out to the Immortal in every note ; which itself satisfyingly puts to rest a lot of doubts as to raison d'etre.

At this very moment, I am listening to Beethoven's "Waldstein" Sonata played by Rudolf Serkin on Maestro. The timing could not have been more perfect. The transition from the Adagio to the Rondo is one of the most beautiful passages that can be come across in music and gives the Waldstein one of its lesser known names , 'L'Aurora' or 'Dawn' for it is reminiscent of the breaking of dawn over the Earth resting in blissful slumber.

Listening to the lovely recapitulation and coda that closes the sonata, I think I can point to the root cause of myself being in low spirits the past day or so. The whole story has an interlinked narrative and for that reason I may have to begin by giving vent to my frustration over the insane heat we have been subjected to over the past 5 months or so. It has been the cause of a great amount of fatigue and tiredness and the loss of dear Trost - poor boy died of a heatstroke.

Yesterday night, I woke up at 10. 30 after falling asleep dead tired on the sofa at about 7.30 .My sleep cycle has been wrecked ever since this 'heat-wave' take over! I felt so miserable drenched in sweat that I made a dash to the shower to feel better. Better did I feel thought the day had still more in store for me. Going downstairs at time has always been a tricky affair but never as much as yesterday night - skid a neat 6 steps and what happened next seems hilarious in hindsight. Immediate sobbing and stifled cries of 'Mummy!' - more like a three year old than a seventeen year old. Suddenly as mummy came rushing, I thought I heard my own voice,albeit a little funny. The crying stopped and what I heard next (my own voice,now more natural) was :'Hey, what do you think you are doing?' . But the first soft word from mummy made me revert to the old voice. 'What happened?' - 'Mama,meine Hand!!Es tut mir weh!!' Crying out in German was still more surprising and what followed next could have been lifted straight out of a page of Beaumarchais - getting up, pulling the nightshirt straight and walking straight to the fridge to fetch a few cubes of ice with an air of disdain.

Tonight though, I am wearing the face of a defeated warrior. I am pining for my violin - it feels terrible to be kept away from him. On the face of it, the pain in the left arm is just an excuse that the baser side of my brain makes to keep me away from he whom I love the most. Come tomorrow and I do not care if my arm falls off, I am going to spend the day with him.

This perhaps is my most personalised blog to date and it feels nice to have given voice to all that I have been feeling throughout the day.

There are a lot of small things that make life worthwhile and quite an equal number of them that make it awkward too. At this moment, I choose to take it all that is nice and beautiful into my life with a smile. Today morning's session of listening to Schubert's Lieder ( heard two discs from the Naxos collection - one by Regina Jakobi and another by Rainer Trost) left me with a considerate coming to terms with despair,despondency and not-so-great times. There are times when you have got to thank God for all the good times He gives you when in dearth of great times.

And if I don't bring myself to stop typing now, I will be running the risk of aggravating that sore arm which I intend to avoid at all costs. So till next time, Tchao!

The film and flu week.

2009-05-05T19:43:00.004+05:30

The plain reason why the film precedes the flu in the title is because optimist that I am,I feel that good things should always have the upper hand.

My thoughts on "Nirgendwo in Afrika" were supposed to be written out quite some time ago,it is now almost a week since I saw the film but it so deeply impacted me that I think my emotions have mellowed considerably over the past few days.The range of emotions that the director Carolin Link managed to capture,assisted by a cast that was stellar (Merab Ninidze and Juliane Koehler managed authoritative performances)is astounding - from cold indifference to intimate familial bonding,it is all there-defined through the prism of realism which makes it a movie most appealing - at all levels.

The beautiful,unobtrusive way in which the relationships are potrayed are noteworthy in that,as is when Hardy's prose turns to poetry,there no longer exists a consciousness of plain reading;it gets exalted to experience.The swift and subtle way in which an insistent communication gap(in spite of the fact that the expression is cliched nowadays,it is perhaps most apt) that erodes the relationship is shown to the audience is astounding.A beautiful example of it is the scene where Jettel bursts out : "But Walter,why don't you speak to me?". There could hardly a more accurate and pin-pointed scene elsewhere in the movie. The admirable quality about the film was that even a novice watching the film sans a connoisseur's eye would be able to observer life - real life - unadulterated - without anything to hamper the realism.

The instances of infidelity in marriage as a direct consequence of neglect and feeling of unwantedness relate very directly to our day-to-day life,without an iota of exaggeration. Yet the scene where Walter asks "Is it necessary that we should have had only each other?It is just another vestige passed on from generation to generation." is so full of hopeful reconciliation;there still lurks a latent hope in his words that his wife still might have been faithful though the truth stares at him plain in the face.Walter Redlich's observations on his marriage couldn't have been more beautifully put;he says that "we are like two parcels tied together and left on a train,each one not knowing its destination." More poignant is the touching depiction of the impact the mother's extra-marital affair has on the young,innocent mind of the daughter for whom her father means the world. As she grows up and sees her mother develop another relationship with Suesskind,which is left ambiguous,the straight-forward question she puts forth is so full of remorse,chagrin and shame : "You slept with that soldier at the hotel to get us a farm and home,what will you get if you sleep with him next?"

On a vast scale,the myriad of emotions that the film invokes at one stretch makes it an experience akin to watching Shakespeare in the medium of opera.The invocation of pure nationalism through a simplistic yet moving reading of Heine's Lorelei is a stroke of real creative thinking.What could be expressed in a way more banal was expressed through the sublime medium of great poetry that still embodies Germanic spirit in its universalised robe. In spite of putting down most of what came to mind,I still feel that what touched me the most has not been conveyed - like all great art it envelopes you.

I missed the film that was screened on Thursday, "Emmas Glueck" due to the flu;though in retrospect it seems it was more due to the tiredness induced by the antibiotic than the flu itself.
I recouped well enough on Friday to get myself to watch the final film "Kebab Connection" and enjoyed it too,though on a different plane. The sheer differences in perspective with which the two films were approached in itself is reason why the two films, "Nirgendwo in Afrika" and "Kebab Connection" cannot be spoken of together. "Kebab" is a well-conceived movie,though it seems to sit in the middle of nowhere,partly due to the fact that the whole story-line lacks the macroscopic vision that characterised most of the other films screened.Even in "Nirgendwo in Afrika",the macroscopic element is very beautifully touched upon : as to just how the rise of the Third Reich in their homeland changes the fortunes of a family by the sheer virtue of being Jewish.

Over the weekend,music has resumed its prominence in my thoughts and writings thought it was a pleasure writing this blog just to relive some of the beautiful parts of the movie and think about it once more in what Wordsworth so beautifully calls "the Mind's Eye".A musical blog is in the offing then,I presume.But in the meanwhile,I am longing for my violin and already radiating joy at the thought of playing through Mendelssohn's exquisite Violinkonzert - there could hardly have been a more perfect embodiment of classical Romanticism.The last phrase affords a lot of food for thought,but I shall reserve it till the Muses once again summon me. Till then !

After "Nirgendwo in Afrika"....

2009-04-28T22:59:00.006+05:30

Watching a film in the right ambiance,that is to say in a cinema,has never been my cup of tea.Someway or the other it is as artificial as viewing planets in a planetarium-cut off from reality in a dark room for a few moments of escapist fantasies.So,when the German Film Festival decided to screen a selected five films in the amphitheatre at the back of the Zentrum premises,I quite jumped at the opportunity.Even though the amphitheatre is only a 180-seater,it is a charming place to screen a film;with a roof to take care of a sudden surprise of a summer shower,it still has enough provision to allow a glimpse of some breathtaking thunder and lightning preludes to a much-anticipated summer shower.

Cinema is quite an integral part of my understanding of Art,though it is restricted to meaningful cinema;for in this realm too,as is with any other,sometimes the meaningless predominates over the rest.Great cinema is a powerful medium of conveying emotion for there is a overwhelming conglomeration of visual impact,spoken intensity and in most cases,sensitively coloured music.Take for example the beautiful music written for "Ladies in Lavender" played by Joshua Bell - every single note radiating the emotions to be portrayed which makes it a singularly moving experience.

I had the good luck of attending the first three films of the Festival with my parents but I think my chances of seeing the last two are going to be thwarted by a very virulent attack of flu which has left me quite devastated physically-racking body aches.

The opening film "Goodbye,Lenin" by Wolfgang Becker perchance was the movie that was most favourably received by the audience.A well-strung narrative showcasing emotion and turmoil at the macroscopic and microscopic planes admirably well was supported by a talented cast led by Daniel Bruehl as Alexander Kermer,through whose eyes we view the world the film endeavours to showcase - the divide between East and West Germany as it existed;as to how differences in political ideologies bring about a rift even in the day-to-day living of people,who were once united as a single nation.The subtleties and tragi-comedy aspect of the film was one of the highlights of Becker's consistently fantastic work - not once does it drift into base comedy or melodramatic tragedy.The pure line of realism that Becker and his cast have managed is admirable in itself.

The treatment of the scene where father and son meet deserves praise for the reserved sentiment it portrays-not even once going overboard. "Kennen wir uns?" "Ja,....wir..kennen uns".The exclusion of a death scene (which any director looking for some dramatic kitsch would have included) was beautiful - closing with the scattering of the mother's ashes to the wind and ending -"Perhaps she is looking at us and seeing us as small specks on Earth" - incredibly calm and poised - the rare quality of class and elegance.

The film that followed was one of the most interesting films I had seen - beautiful visualisation of the stream of consciousness technique - from the allusion to the car that moves equally fast backwards and forwards (for the technique itself is described as "looking forwards and backwards like the two heads of Janus.") ; to the exemplary flashbacks and monologues it offers.Schipper's "Ein Freund von mir" is an experience in itself which cannot be,per se,written about.It was a film that allowed another glimpse into the versatility of Herr Bruehl's acting skills along with that of Juergen Vogel.

"Nirgendwo in Afrika" requires another blog for itself-its so beautiful.Till then,I will gave my aching shoulders a bit of rest...

Fragments of a long lost blog.

2009-04-23T19:33:00.009+05:30

My second blog was supposed to have gone up last Saturday but due to reasons that I myself cannot comprehend it just got turned over till now.Well,hopefully it is going up with some finality today.The fragments from the blog that was to be and held great promise are also going to be a part of today's blog and since I cannot take off from where I left as life,as is always,is in constant flux,it shall have a new beginning.

" The little cat has obviously has been curious enough to have explored a tonne of things the past week and has lots to write!!

First of all,to literature where I left off last time.After a heart breaker of a novel by Hardy,'Tess of the d'Ubervilles',I think I spent nearly a day or two in contemplation.Simply put,it is an overwhelming novel of overpowering emotion.As a matter of fact,the sense of,'God-alone-knows-what' that grips you as your eyes trace : "'Justice' was done and the President of the Immortals,in Aeschylean phrase,had ended his sport with Tess" falls not like just another thunderbolt,it is almost like the thunderbolt of Zeus that charred Semele;at once tender yet destructive.It almost fails the human spirit;so much do you feel for and agonise and experience the emotion that Tess goes through.Therein lies the greatness in Hardy - he doesn't give you a detailed psychoanalysis to absorb and then to ruminate,he sets the scene for you to experience and analyse the subsequent emotions for yourself.For a time after this,I was frantically searching my collection for something to raise myself.A sensitive student of literature has to be like the phoenix,I suppose!I finally came across a newly bought,unabridged copy of Dumas' "The Count of Monte Cristo".My ambrosia for the next two days.I admit it,I have always loved Dumas.. "

To start with,a short note on my new profile picture.To suit the 'Keatsian Cat',I did take a cat picture and it is of my dearest cat Trost,who is no longer physically present with us on Earth.His loss is one that knows no bounds and all of us at home are still extremely pained at his untimely and extremely abrupt departure from our midst.
However,we take consolation,as his name meant in German,in the fact that he gave us some of the most memorable times while here with us.And consolation did he bring to the very last moment he took in breath-each time giving us hope and making sure we all felt he was fine and that he would bounce back like before,while he suffered agony and pain.He infused us with joie-de-vivre that will be sorely missed -from his early morning trot to his gallop when his name was called- memories that can never fade.

All to sudden,perhaps,with just a short illness of a day,to succumb to poisoning....it is the loss of even time to come to terms with his illness that has come down so hard upon us.It was something that strongly underlined the ephemeral nature of Nature-what is here one moment need not necessarily be there the next.He was the most personalised cat we had ever met-every single thing he did was stamped;it was unique-it was Trostian.From an uncanny resemblance to my favourite tenor(detected by my mother) to yet another uncanny ability to sing so sweetly and mellifluously that each time he sang,we would assign an aria to the little ditty(more often than not,"Un'aura amorosa") ;this cat led a full life.He chased,he hunted,he loved and was loved,he fought,he won and lost but irrevocably lost the battle for his life.
A small little cat who taught me things that nothing else in the world could have.From being a sickly little kitten who was officially called Zadok(inspiration being Handel's Zadok the Priest),in spite of being lovingly called "Speckle" because of his small size,he battled illness after illness,was cared for like a baby;he metamorphosised,by sheer power of affirmation,into the 'Smartest Cat in Town'.Anything and everything is possible,his life story read...anything.

Coping with bereavement of a pet is as traumatic or even more traumatic as that of losing a close relative.By simple virtue of the time spent with the animal,it is seemingly impossible to banish thoughts of the good and not-so-good times you had together and it makes the early stages of bereavement is really inferno.Each time you dip into an old bit of life,it stings and hurts for you understand and try to come to terms with the fact that in as much that that moment was unique,you are never again going to get a chance to do it again.
When he last came to play with me and rubbed against my legs and playfully snipped at my ankles to remind me to give him his special evening share,little did I realise that it would be the very last.The only cat ever to have done it and to think that I have had to be bereft of it,it is heart-wrenching.

Everytime somebody speaks of bereavement,almost all of us,sans exception,listen patiently, but perhaps with an affected air.But for a moment,just put yourself in that place - it no longer becomes somebody else's problem or loss - it becomes personal as you realise that you too could be in that place.

Turning to the great literature that was my source of comfort and solace during this difficult phase,the change that comes over in Akhilles in his discourse with King Priam as the old king comes to beg for his dead son,glorious Hektor's body is one resplendent example of psychological change that comes upon the man whose uncontrolled rage is the theme of Homer's epic poem,Iliad.As he ponders and comes to the conclusion that he too,as his mother herself prophesied,soon after Hektor's death,would also be nothing more than a name,if not a name that would be remembered by the ages to come;he thinks of this old father,King Peleus,who too,like Priam was now,would be left to live out the rest of his days on earth embittered and withered by the sorrow of having lost his glorious son.

Speaking of the Iliad,the inextricable web of Destiny and Fate to which every mortal,however fearless and courageous,however great and distinguished, has to submit himself becomes the fabric that holds this epic of raw force and naked power together.
One of the most memorable lines in the Iliad,marked for perhaps what is the most macabre usage of the word 'friend',is the one in which Akhilles alludes to what is set in store for him,as he stands there,ready to bore his spear into Lycaon,Priam's youngest son "Come,friend,you too must die.Why moan about it so?" and later,in a singularly powerful passage that follows he says,"Look at me,son of a great man and of an immortal goddess,yet Death and inexorable Destiny wait for me".

The sheer power of the Iliad is that it has already swept me up in its folds.No longer can I write without profusely quoting from this tour-de-force(most of it miraculously consigned to memory) and running the risk of breaking my fingers.

So,till next time,when the Muse summons me....have a good time!

The cat's first steps.

2009-04-13T20:06:00.005+05:30

The Keatsian Cat writes her first blog - her first tiny step into the vast,wide world of technology and 'online writing'.
Sounds nice. Well,why am I 'The Keatsian Cat'?
As a matter of fact,I am at equal ease with the Romantics - Keats, Shelley and Byron but try associating the last two with a cat and the relationship doesn't quite work out.Try 'Shellyian Cat' -sounds a bit strained and the 'Byronic Cat' just doesn't fit together.'The Keatsian Cat' perhaps sounds the most Keatsian and the most catty, doesn't it?

And the 'Cat' part of the story perhaps goes beyond phonetic coherence and beauty.Or it may well be in the omnipresent Keatsian theme of beauty that the answer may lie...
Being an ardent cat lover with a lovely cat family at home,the cat would naturally have been my first choice but there is more to it.I am not at all biased about cats,for that matter I love dogs equally if not more-after all I had a lovely Samoyed for an elder brother;but there is a otherworldly poetic quality about these cats.Not that the melting warmth of a doggie's eyes aren't poetic,it is just that they are conservatively poetic.Cats are other-worldly poetic-creatures that almost instantly make you feel that they have these intergalactic poetical flights of fantasy all the time!

Well, at the liberty of calling myself a cat,and a good one at that,I'm quite an operatic one,as most of mine are,though more in perfect pitch. Opera, music and literature are such thickly interwoven strands of my life that I possibly couldn't write a blog without mentioning a single one of these.

Perhaps literature to start with.With my classicist tendencies,it would not be wrong to say that I ought to have belonged to some other bygone era - one of cobbled roads and candlelight,one of exquisite peace and serenity,decked away at some beautiful farmland,content with simply watching the sun rise and set,playing the violin,reading and enjoying great music in the company of good friends and being serenely at peace watching the moon up there in the heavens above.

"Der Vollmond steigt,
Der Nebel weicht,
und der Himmel,da oben,wie ist er so weit"

Those lovely lines from Wilhelm Mueller's 'Die Schoene Muellerin" song cycle set by Schubert could in effect sum up all that I feel now.Simply exquisite poetry,extraordinarily beautiful,touching music.Schubert's "Die Schoene Muellerin" song-cycle,along with the famed "Die Winterreise",could be counted as one of the most powerfully overwhelming experiences-musical or otherwise,simply on account of the myriad of tonal and emotional colours it evokes.In the hands of a great and gifted interpreter,it becomes an unforgettable experience.I remember listening to Rainer Trost's stupendous recording of the song-cycle for the first time.All I knew at the end of it was that I had felt and experienced perhaps all that could be humanely possible at one time.I just sat there,the whole world had seemingly come to a stand-still and the next thing I felt was a surge in my bosom and then warm tears streaming down my cheeks.Renewed and repeated hearings just add layer after layer to the foundation it had laid,just like the record of Menuhin playing the Beethoven-just keeps getting better. Great Art is unquestionably immortal for it is conceived in communion with the One above,blessed and sanctified.

Maybe setting a trend for things to come,my first venture into the blogging world has been quite long.Inspite of its initial 'length'(which of course,counts for nothing-'content matters,not length' is the chorus from within,quite something else was the dictum laid down by teachers preparing us for an exam),I have not been able to touch upon quite a few of the extraordinary experiences I have had over the past few days,be it the wonderful time I have at the Goethe-Zentrum,or an indescribable moment of emotional tumult after finishing the last line of Hardy's 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles' or the sheer epiphany at discovering Chapman's Homer(a pretty allusion to Keats) or the lovely wave of momentary satisfaction that runs through a musician when she hears a piece almost at the right place(for me,with Paganini's Moses Variations)but reverts,almost instinctively to a cringe that most musicians,as well as artists are quite familiar: "Well,that went fine,but I might as well could have added that tiny bit of something more there...."
That most probably will be the same thing that I will hear in myself as my first blog as the Keatsian Cat goes up.

Till next time!! Auf Wiederseh'n!!