Some cheesy moments !! :)

Retreat...

Its a sea of emotions again...

Emotions that I'm familiar with, emotions my heart craves for and emotions it dreads.

Once more, I'm in a trance, split between the real and the surreal. I want to believe the rare shades of surrealism and I want those of realism to fade away...

I confront the joys that I always long for. But, there it is......the guard that holds them back, several invisible barriers that keep me from feeling what I do and expressing what I feel.

Why can't I smile back with love when he smiles at me, instead adopting a stern look of indifference and turning away...

Why can't I utter a word when I've been wanting to say so much, waiting for him to come around...

Why can't I yield when he wants to walk with me and drown in his fragrance that I attempt to recreate when I'm alone...

Several unconstructed fences hold me back, injuring me over and over again. I know they're meant to protect me. But, they cause me to behave like a different person everytime, leaving me alone in a world where people think I'm too proud to share my space.

But, they hardly know that I taste pain everytime I feel love. And, thus, I retreat into my shell when I feel like flying the most...

Unison

What you see of me is only my countenance sculptured well. But, as much as I live on the surface, I live within. The outer self has been just beautifully carved and chiseled out of the rock that the inner me harbors and is substantiated with.

It defines my life, the way I lead it and above all, it gives me reason to live it the way I do…….every moment, every hour !

We talk a lot these days about ‘inner voice’ or ‘conscience’ and people say I have one….which they happen to encounter in situations where I am unable to support those around me for the sake of that strange feeling inside my heart that says ‘this doesn’t seem to be the right thing to do’. Call it heart or mind or simply a voice that is active all the time and is omnipresent, happy when I am walking the streets humming my favorite number, sad when I am disappointed with the way people change, anxious when I am waiting for an interview and silent when I don’t give it any food for thought !
But, more than it being my companion, it has now become my soul-cum-devil sister, to whom I feel like pouring out all details of what I go through in the course of the day, in the hustle-bustle of life. Things I could not share with any of those I am dwelling with or those who tend to befriend me only for a passing phase though. Be it acclamation for the work I have done, a new friend that I happened to identify in a stranger till yesterday, a strange feeling that made me happy momentarily although disapproving, a kind act that I found myself prompted to do for the helpless around, the chiding I got even when I was not wrong or that frequent feeling of being estranged to the home I go to every night...
She hears it all, with the ears of a priest who allows the confessor to express without inhibitions, like a friend who shares the joy s/he can sense in the excited voice, like a father who knows which part to emphasize on with a tag of worldly advice and encompassing all, like a mother who engulfs it all for the child’s joy. This inner voice eventually became my secret friend from whom I could quickly sneak an advice in the face of a fleeting moment, when I am not sure how to act or what to say, it is this voice I rely upon. It not only nurses me when I tend to get bruised by the worldly touch but also pampers me when uncertainties tend to pull me down. It helps me act like a considerate daughter, a responsible sister and a storehouse of so many roles we have to play in the ticking hours every day.
But, does this voice have an identity ? a face ? or does it live ?.........Yes, it does !
It was after witnessing a theatrical act, a soliloquy of a person who speaks to her inner voice and realizes some of the realities of her life, that I came back home and questioned myself, do I have an inner voice, does it speak to me…. And immediately the answer came, Yes I do……and all this while what I had not realized is that the inner voice for me is my Mom, she’s always been. She’s the one living within me every fraction of a second, going every place I visit, watching me even as I type these letters and feeling a tide of waves in her bosom whenever I smile or I cry.

She is the internal force that led to the formation of the rock within me and is constantly shaping it even now, giving it tenacity, subtleness and a new look every time that obviously reflects on the surface. She created me out of her blood, gave me her breath when I was strangling to come out, fed me when I was no more than a sheet of flesh covering fragile nerves, and she is still the one striving day and night tirelessly to make me a human who would surpass human flaws and exceed human expectations, a daughter she would be proud of and already is, from the moment she yielded me...
She is like the ‘Black Diamond’ rushing with a lightning speed in the darkness of those silent hours when passengers have been long waiting after the hectic day’s chores to go home, cold, hungry, devoid of sleep. The Express means a lot of things to them. Its sight enbalms them with the comforting feeling of being home instantaneously. They forget about the hunger or the sleep. All they think about is a seat on those hard wooden or metal benches whereon they can sit, munching peanuts, playing cards, cracking jokes or carelessly going off to sleep awakened only by the shouts of the herds of rickshaw pullers when the last station arrives who ride them home safely despite the winding, rustic ways dotted with dark trees and wide expanse of fields whose ends are way beyond sight now.
Her voice is like the jingle of tiny bells hanging from anklets in the hum-drum of life, like hundreds of festivals being celebrated together when I am strolling on dark unfamiliar streets, like infinite notes being orchestrated in harmony amidst the cries of commoners.
The chord that had kept me connected to her is still alive, making two lives in unison, breathing joy and pain alike...

Downpour.......... :)

Its raining again, though its more like the sprinkler you pass by and helplessly get half-wet, wondering… whether to submerge in the feeling or seek warmth.

Feels like you are lying amidst wet grass and every blade is caressing you like a blanket crocheted out of green wool. The soil upholding you through the slumber to keep your dream from breaking.

Or like the red-chested robin who shakes off the water dripping from its feathers and is boisterously perched in the confines of the long trunks covered with moss whose grandeur never fails to render shelter to any creature who flies by, whereby, we become conscious of the beauty of its maple-colored leaves and the moist fragrance its tiny berries decant in the damp surroundings.

In that eerie silence, one can hum with the melodious note composed by the drops trickling from the edges of undulated roofs, leaves that have been converted into make-shift basins with the water collected along their veins, an umbrella that has been just spread for drying by the old man who had rushed to gather some flour for fritters, from the clothes and ear-lobes of kids who had been cheering in mud puddles and the bangles of the women who have wound up daily chores to enjoy the kaleidoscopic view from their balconies, making it more resounding with their chuckles, gossips and hot filter coffee cupped in their palms wrapped with the ends of their wrinkled sarees.

To fill more colors in this variegated backdrop, an army of seven colors mounted on the chariot led by the sun’s seven horses rushes towards the horizon, stealthily sweeping into the azure sky. Crimson reigns and mingles with it to create a perfect blend that carpets the arena, while others get dispersed leaving a sparkling bow on the face of the sky which seems to have experienced the kiss of love. The spectacle enchants the beholders, who like fresh lovers, are stupefied by the sweet nothings, and as they seem to engulf the chant, twilight is born…. giving way to a bewitching night !

An evening at Rangashankara………

It was the evening of November 13, when my long-unfulfilled desire of visiting the hub of expressions, came true !

Rangashankara....a place I had once mentioned in my earlier posts I would like to visit on an occasion and in a company, both of which I wish to find difficult to resist.

And...it happened !

Not to mention of its embracing steps that at once render you a feeling of belonging. The grandeur which entices you as if awaiting your foot-steps, all in service when you arrive there !

The flock you mingle with, once in its premises is a perfect palette of so many colors...you just add one more to it and wouldn’t want to leave it in quest of any more.
Its difficult to resist eavesdropping on a medley of amusing conversations when people are innocently chatting in languages they think are exclusive to themselves, ignorant that how closely those words might be interwoven around the strings of somebody’s heart who just overheard them. Attempting to familiarize with unlike tongues but like minds is theatrical in itself…

The paintings that adorn the walls narrate numerous stories that have been staged in the hall for years now, circumscribed by people from places near and distant, seated beside each other, held by the bonds of destiny.

The cafetaria that is the incubator for new stories to arise and to be staged, unknown to the playwright itself, leave alone the prospective viewers who might come to the same place years later to witness an idea that had been incepted at a fleeting moment they had then belonged to, unaware. Emotions that had traveled seas of thoughts are finally framed as expressions, ready to be dramatized, to be told for the times to come, again and again often becoming the possession of more than one master.

And the enchanted auditorium which has never been short of people under the spell of its magic cast by the performers, even for a single day since it started except for the weekly offs !

The seated viewers are like the rocks lying on the beach unattended, who gather a different form and shape after having been swept away by the waves of laughter, cries, sighs and screams all conveying a different meaning to each one of them.

Hence, goes on the process of Lights, Camera and Action, not visibly though, but meticulously hand-in-hand, making it tough for us to decide when the show began….and even after it has come to a halt, we stay stupefied in the hope that The Show Must Go On !!!

It was a soulful experience to witness the awe-inspiring Arundhati Nag perform a monologue in ‘Bikhre Bimb’ – 'Broken Images', written and directed by the connoisseur Girish Karnad, the plot too richly laden with thought, language and expression to be captured in my words as of now !

So, for now, wait for your turn...till you experience the magic ! :)

The Canvas Of Life Has Many Shades !

The sheets have been removed, the canvas once more revealed, oils are being poured out and the mood of the artist decides which shade gets to mix with another on his palette. The strokes have no form but still define his subject. They have the power to reflect emotions, variably interpreted by the medley of viewers it attracts. Each viewer has his own story when he comes but leaves with a different one, the panorama they just witnessed having a unique impact on each one of them.
The elements in any piece of art speak volumes about the painter’s experiences, the flavors life has offered to him and his perception of the same.
On some occasions, his beautiful creation might seem too whimsical or unrealistic to others to appreciate. The ones whose aesthetic sense has been repainted by the worldly hues fail to be amused by the guileless expression of unbleached beauty.
On others, the depth and intensity that the artist attempts to convey goes unheeded by the shallow eyes of the viewer. Eyes that fail to conceive the boisterous waves of emotions hidden behind the thick layers, each layer adding a new dimension to the ones underneath.
And then there are eyes that get drowned in those colors so deep that they lose their old shades, the ones too faded to persist. This redefines the way the world appears to them and objects that seemed insignificant earlier gain meaning.
Hence, goes on the journey through lands far and wide, woods that are beautiful but lonely, icelands that are cold yet enticing, deserts that are endless and quiet, rivers that are bountiful but salty, castles that are alluring but mysterious and mountains that are rocky but august.
It’s the passer-by who cherry-picks the shades and moves on with his basket of hues leaving behind the rest for the followers to conquer, transforming the picturesque journey we all call ‘life’ !

The biggest fish of the river gets to be that by not getting caught !

Very well said by a movie character who was actually featuring as a witch with a glass eye in which one could see the way he was supposed to die. This witch happened to give the wisest advice to the central character of the movie who eventually turned out to be a story-teller, so much so, that the advice not only enabled him to channelize his determination and make something meaningful out of it in this materialistic world but also helped him identify the love of his life whom he won over through his unconquerable willpower and witty yet honest ways of trespassing the obstacles offered by fellow human beings. These fellow human beings are the ones who are of no worth other than to maintain the little importance endowed to them by the meager knowledge they possess that might assist somebody in attaining what they covet more than anything. And, hence they make a living by extracting a heavy price for extending their cooperation to the men who need it the most.

Coming back to our central character, he is our favorite story-teller, Edward, whom everybody likes for his fascinating ways of narrating the adventures of his life. Or should we say, who makes them sound interesting for the so called audience he loves by giving it a slight twist so that the ending of every incident is surely an unprecedented one, leave alone the entire trail.

But, apparently, there is always a fidelity test every good thing has to pass through before it is labeled as one, no matter how soulful or how true the person behind it or in this the fabricator is !

The person around whom Edward’s tales used to spin was his son, Will and as it turned out to be, it was Will who eventually grew up to believe that his father had been faking all life and that nothing of what he narrated could ever be true ! No matter how much his father tried to vouch for his honesty, Will would call him an iceberg whose only 10% he knew that too as on the surface and nothing about what he really was deep within.

So much so, that Will didn’t speak to Edward for a consistent period of three years on the account of feeling embarrassed by his father’s tell-tale habit every night, on every occasion and in front of every audience, without realizing that some occasions needed to be strictly reserved for the importance of the reason for which it was being celebrated. Neglected and disgusted, Will felt that he was only the ‘foot-note’ of Edward’s stories whereas the latter believed that he was actually the context of all his tales and at least the very much reason of his most favorite and life-changing important tale.

Nevertheless, Will himself was a writer and consistently pleaded to his crafty father to reveal his real self to his only son now that he was on death-bed. And, as Will himself was going to father a son, he didn’t want to loiter in the dark. Be it good, bad, success, failure, he yearned to know the real human being his father had embodied, hidden from the outer world, all his life, no matter how enticing and charming his tales seemed to them. But, Edward maintained his stand saying that he was what he seemed to be and it was not his time yet as he knew how he was going to die, the way he had seen in the witch’s eye.

Lurching with his quest to know his father in vain, Will was in the store-house amusing himself with the stuff his father had gathered in the course of the adventures life had offered him. And to his disbelief, he found a few things that stood testimony to the fact that the incidents his father always narrated to him, had actually happened. If not all, at least most of them. And this led Will to travel all the way to ‘Spectre’ that had been described by his father as the land of perfection. Not only did he end up being there but also met the person who had influenced Edward in the most unique way. As deciphered from the situation, he comprehended his father as a flirt, believing that there were a lot of facts he had hidden from Will and his mother. But, this lady at Spectre added a new dimension to Will’s beliefs when she revealed the fact that it was she who had turned out to be the ‘witch’ in wait of Edward and her unfulfilled love for him because Edward had been always loyal to his wife and he vouched of loving her till the day he died and saw no other woman.

This led Will to develop some respect for his father and he left to pay him a visit at the hospital. While sitting beside him in the still of the night, Will was suddenly awakened by Edward’s husky voice. Unable to figure out what he needed, Will offered him water. But, it wasn’t water. Edward was restless and requested Will to tell him the way he was supposed to die. But, poor Will said that his father had never narrated that story to him and didn’t know what to say. For the first time in life, he was feeling so helpless and sorry that he didn’t know his father’s stories well.

But, Will had no choice. Destiny seemed to have brought him to the toughest point in life, both as a son and as a writer. He decided to give it a try and narrated to his father how he would die, all full of adventures and improbable situations. Throughout his description, Will spun the threads of the story so well that his father could visualize all he was saying vividly and seemed to be in a different world. The story ended where it had embarked and featured Will carrying his father to the deep waters where he becomes ‘The Big Fish’ and goes deep down to the place he had always belonged, this time forever !

As Will finished, he realized it was the most beautiful piece of creation he had ever come up with and Edward seemed to have got wiped over with satiation. Convinced this is how it happens, he closes his eyes and leaves for the world of his immortal stories.

The funeral takes place and Will along with his wife are pleasantly perplexed to see different breeds of people attending it, The Giant who had once been a threat to the town of Ashton and whom Edward had counseled and taken along to the city where his talent could be recognized, The Ring Master who had hired the giant and helped Edward get the love of his life, his wife, The Siamese Twins who had helped Edward escape from a enemy camp during the wars in return of an idea for getting rich, The poet cum robber from Spectre who was inspired by Edward to travel all across the globe and establish an identity as a poet and later become a rich man, the Mayor of Ashton who had bid him farewell with the Giant thanking him for his kind deed with the note that the city doors would always be open for him and amongst many others, The Witch !

Contrary to the usual funerals, all the people present there were talking and laughing aloud on the tales Edward had always narrated to them. He lived in the hearts of so many of them as a socially likeable man who made people happy.

And like this, the stories passed on for generations. Truly said, some stories are told so many times and over so many ages that the narrator of the stories himself becomes a story and lives on forever !

Edward too lived on as The Big Fish whom none was able to catch !