an endless search...

I am looking for something amidst ruptures, penitence, copious tears and sobs; something I have lost, may be eons ago; but know not what it is. Something whose sheer presence would imprison my awful thoughts; something that would touch up my unseen wounds and bruises.; a sponge that would absorb my tears. Is that then a missing link, a talisman? They say I have not lost it and have it already somewhere hidden inside me. That remains to be explored. But I need it desperately before embarking on such an expedition. But sometimes a thought crosses my mind that I would get used to everything without it. Why do I search then??? What could be the reason? Is it then for the sheer pleasure of it?

Thus Spake He Once...

Wish I were blind. I am tired of looking at the world through the window of my eyes. I cannot close the window. It is not in my hands. The doors of the window are broken or stolen. I have no idea whatsoever. Not that I am desperate to know. But spare me the horror of excess vision. I cannot stand it. They say that excess of or in everything is good for nothing (I do not know if it is bad). But am I only cut out for this excess vision? Am I the only one with a disabled window? If there are countless others with such windows then how does the view differ? If visions are destined to differ then should not I be proud of my unique vision? Why should I partake of, borrow or affiliate myself with your vision? The fact is I will not and cannot. It is against my ethics. Why are you so hell bent then on forcing me to see the way you do? Can it happen the other way round? Your answer would be no. How can my answer be yes?

A Moment Worth Forgetting

A moment comes in life when the ground we stand on turns feeble. The dwindling state marks the certainty of our fall. Finally we fall with no glory whatsoever attached to it. This time it becomes very difficult for us to rise. Through no fault of our own when we fall or thrown into a state of utter humiliation, we lick our wounds and rise subsequently, for we are not at fault. But it becomes next to impossible to rise when we fall for a silly mistake. There is no rescue from this random descend. It is like when a warrior never troubled by gushes falls prey to a minor bruise.

I

know

that

you

will

pull

me

back

from

the

brink

The morning was pleasant. But a blinker of darkness was still covering the world - of which I was a denizen. My eyes parted and there was light on the objects around. But there were some eyes, open though, yet the darkness therein was inexhaustible.

I woke up early in the morning when last night's dreams were subsiding on the shores of reality. The day had dawned. the sky was dappled with clouds of various shades, mostly grey. I too had traces of grey on my head. The wind was recalcitrant like a child. I was expecting something extraordinary to happen, for the niggardly world about me was with traces of its long-lost benevolence. I decided to hope again, though the story of my utter despair still had its way...

My Final Refuge

Desperately

waiting for

the moment,

when

I would

drift

into

you.

OF MANIFESTATION

Truth manifests itself in myriad ways. We are mere mediums of this art of manifestation. Therefore, truth is impartial and without blemish for it manifests itself through everything. But I am not one with you friend. If truth is impartial then why some are happy and some just survive as pain? I know your answer would be that suffering is the fire that consumes us and subsequently reduces us to what we actually are or should be. These are but metaphysical truths dear to minds of a high order. But can we live with what we actually are or should be? If yes, then why were we created in the first place when the residual remnant called truth is the element He and we are made of? But we have got something extra that god is deprived of. That is the gift of suffering. Thus, we are a step ahead. Are we then an improvisation? Is it then a consolation?

The Mahabharata

The ancient civilization of India differs from those of Egypt, Mesopotamia and Greece, in that its traditions have been preserved without a break down to the present day-A.L. Basham,The Wonder that was India

Though the above mentioned proposition and the title of the book are paradoxical, yet we are charmed by the former, not the latter. If the proposition is true, we would be inclined to change the title into The Wonder that is India.

One of the reasons why India (Bharatavarsa) as an idea and an entity is a wonder is its experience of the past as the living presence. The past flows along and within the present. The past never passes away. Which could in a certain sense, explain the typical Indian disinclination to mummify the past as a document called history. Even the Indian artists considered it blasphemous to leave their personal mark on their creations, dedicating them to their cherished deities instead. It is especially true of the Mahabharata, the greatest epic ever written. The civilizational memory that the Mahabharata carries with it contains in sedimented layers the genetic prints of all forms and modes of human experience as enfolded in the peninsula. The Mahabharata is thus a metahistory. Starting from granny’s world of stories to the attainment of our second-childhood (grannyhood) the Mahabharata is never far from our narrative consciousness. It is the primal source of sense of all our stories; the repertoire of all our archetypes. That is why it is proclaimed of the Mahabharata: “what is not in it is nowhere”. As R.K.Narayan in his retelling of the Mahabharata posits: “it is a greatest tale with well-defined characters who talk and act with robustness and zest—heroes and villains, saints and kings, women of beauty, all displaying great human qualities as well as power, satanic hates and intrigues all presented against an impressive background of ancient royal capitals, forests and mountains”.

Translation being a major component of comparative literature, it is necessary to know more of the translations and adaptations of the Mahabharata into various regional bhasas in our country. In the western tradition, the translation of the Bible stands as the paradigm for all subsequent translations, religious or secular. An intransigent conception of fidelity, in the literal sense, to the letter of the text, is the hallmark of biblical translations. In the Indian tradition, however, a certain measure of latitude is given to the translator to depart from the source language text (SLT). Such freedom is teleological: it allows the translator to free into purposive play his creative ability to build upon, restructure, ramify or amplify the original.

Why Art? - A Laconic Reflection

A true artist should put a generous deceit on the spectators.

Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry

To define is to limit, yet definitions are indispensable at times (the way the verbalisation of ‘Love’ is), provided they are unilateral; for when everybody defines alike, actually nobody utters anything new. And the method of defining a delicate subject like ‘art’ turns out to be pretty mechanical unless it is euphemistically dealt with. Therefore, instead of going for a definition, our ‘reflection’ on art lands us on a safer ground. This write-up tries to explore the value of art vis-à-vis life rather laconically.

Famous novelist D.H.Lawrence in his novel Women in Love writes, “It is better to die than to live a life which is only a repetition of repetitions”. There are moments when life seems pretty monotonous. The very presence of present becomes extremely suffocating.

Time does not pass on in a trice, much like a dream. We get used to the usual days and nights, sunrises and sunsets resulting in dullness. We become nostalgic and try to release the moments of happiness from the embrace of memory, for happiness is either a memory or a desire-not a present fact. In remembering something one remembers oneself. Memory is fundamentally subjective. The memories of one person cannot be transferred into the memory of another. In this sense, memory is a private possession. Moreover, it is in memory that the original tie of consciousness to the past appears to reside. Thus memory assures the temporal continuity of the self. Even the remembrance of an old pain and suffering gives pleasure. And we start our odyssey in search of time lost and our entire life becomes a remembrance of things past. But like countless other objects and beings, some memories and events too are ephemeral. But we want their perennial presence or permanence. Art as a medium of expression provides this permanence. It gives us a novelty of vision which renders the most boring, uninteresting and tedious things interesting, attractive and exciting. It puts enamel like film or blinker of beauty on the ugliest and dullest things and objects. Like an intoxicant, it gives, if not happiness, yet the illusion of happiness which sustains us and strengthens us to face the challenges of life with equanimity. An invisible bridge and a defence mechanism, art gives us the promise of transportation to a dream-land, free from the corrosive power of time, where the usual dawns exhale a fresh air and wear a new look, the trees and mountain tops silhouetted against the dim-orange twilight sky look divine and the line that separates life from the eternal oblivion gets blurred, after all life is death unmasked. And the heart quivers with an unknown symphony and mind grows magic wings (like Pegasus) and gets charged with the breath of a new spirit and sings:

Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of poesy...

Of Happiness...

Happiness is always a memory or a desire...

Of Madness

Who is mad? This question keeps on pricking me every now and then. Somebody whose mind is derailed; somebody who is unlike us (botn positively and negatively)????

O! Friendship...

A friend is one in whom we discover our eternity...

O! Silence...

Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves.

O! Time....

Time passes on in a trice. It is a fistful of sand that slips through our fingers and becomes what we call memories and these memories subsequently turn into history. It is better to drink life to the lees before the cup gets empty.