The collective Consiousness of Bharata

I watch a man ,with a child on his shoulder, singing him to sleep, crooning a Tamil bhajan. The bhajan sings about qualities of Rama and for a moment, I was lost in admiration. It goes thus:

Whomsoever treads the path of love

He and Rama are verily one

He who wipes the tears of the weeping

He and Rama are verily one

The son who gladdens the heart of his parents

He and Rama are verily one.

The one who shows others the right path

He and Rama are verily one

The leader who offers his life to protect Dharma

He and Rama are verily one

The brave one who stakes himself to protect others

He and Rama are verily one

What an ideal He is, what ideals have been placed before the people of our land as cultural symbols, handed over from time immemorial, coursing through the veins of this nation, infusing the songs of children, the conduct of men and even the rule of a nation. What power Rama has had over the collective consciousness of Bharata. Even the Mahatma, when asked to explain his ideal form of government, used the term Rama Rajya. And he went on to describe the rule of justice that should prevail in an ideal government. What power the Rama Nama has had, that the Mahatma’s conception of an ideal nation is inspired by the idea of Ram Raja.

What a place, it has in the minds of our people, His life painstakingly told and retold through generations by our Rishis, our gurus, our wandering Parivrajakas, our mothers and grandmothers, our family and village elders, embellished with a gem of a detail, a local legend here and there till it became living reality for millions in this land for thousands of years.

For a minute, when I heard him sing, I got a glimpse of what Rama meant to the millions in this land, me who had become disrooted and disconnected from my own, through the lenses and frameworks I’ve learnt. Our ideals, symbols and forms, which have been painstakingly handed over through centuries, which have influenced the course of this land in ways that we cannot even begin to fathom, are being lost to us, the rightful inheritors of these priceless treasures, in an unprecedented, rapid manner. Our sons and daughters will scarce understand what Rama meant to the people of this land. Instead, they would learn of the great novelist (not Rishi) Valmiki and his protagonist( and what strawman characterisation!) and dissect his writing as they would the writing of a novel from a postmodern lens or whatever lens is in vogue then. And they may perhaps, know more details than our forefathers knew, perhaps, though I see that to be unlikely, but what they would have truly lost, and I can’t imagine a bigger tragedy from a cultural point of view, from a dharmic point of view, is this cultural inheritance, this bhava, this emotional connect to an endless fountain of meaning and inspiration, this ideal that pushes every man to rise a little higher than where he is every day.

And so will it be for all our cultural symbols and forms. Bharatanatyam will be a mere aesthetic experience, carnatic music would be just about a filter coffee and a connoisseur’s knowledge of ragas, our samskaras like marriage would be mere anthropological curiosities and play acting (‘lets have a vedic themed wedding!’) , our tales, our ways of life and our languages would be of mere academic interest. We may know more about them than ever, but only the forms would remain. And if there is a prayer I have for my people, for my land, it is that these never perish from our collective consciousness, but live on, in ever new forms, providing strength, vigour, solace, inspiration and longing for a higher ideal for our people.

On the Relevance of Literature

The good folks at Shrishti - Amrita's Literary Club were nice enough to invite me as the chief guest for their annual induction program last Friday. I spoke on the relevance of literature in one's life. This was what I spoke. The first thing that I would like to say is - thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to visit Amrita again. This might seem strange to some of you here, it would have certainly seemed strange had anyone told me this when I was back in college, but you realise the beauty of certain phases in your life only when you look back on it. 

 There is another reason for which I wish to thank you all - for making me reflect back on my journey with literature. At the offset, let me be honest with you - I cant act, I’m not a great speaker, I cant do most of the things that the good folks at Srishti do. What I can do, and love doing, is to read and write.

 I remember being forced to read my first book - Heidi, when I was in school. It was a book, the size of my hand, and about a seventy pages at the most. I remember struggling, muttering and complaining my way through the book. This continued for the first few years. The next thing that I remember is having my computer being taken away from me during my fifth grade, never to come back until it reappeared six months before my 12 standard board exams, along with internet and a new mobile phone. Anyway, with the computer taken away from me for most of my schooling years,I turned to books to entertain myself. Thus began a beautiful journey that continues to this day. 

 When I sat thinking about this, these were a few things that came to my mind:

 1) I had no one to tell me what 'good literature' was. I read because it was fun. I read because I could lose myself in a book for hours walking down the lands of Middle Earth and the  Battlefields of Mahabharata. I read because I could journey into the lives of people, see things through other pairs of eyes. I read because I could relate to the beauty and aesthetics of Tagore in his  Farewell My Friend,  the inner journey in Herman Hesse’s Siddartha, the magical worlds of Rushdie’s Enchantress of Florence.  Only later, did I come to know that these were stalwarts of literature. 

 2) Sometimes, the best literature is found in rather unexpected places. Consider this passage:

 " All our progress, our vanities, our reforms, our luxuries, our wealth, our knowledge, have that one end — death.Cities come and go, empires rise and fall, planets break into pieces and crumble into dust, to be blown about . This has been going on from time without beginning. Death is the end of life, of beauty, of wealth, of power, of virtue too. Saints die and sinners die, kings die and beggars die. They are all going to death, and yet this tremendous clinging on to life exists. Somehow, we do not know why, we cling to life; we cannot give it up." 

 Any guess on the author? I happened to find this in one of Vivekananda’s Speeches. As far as I am concerned, there is high literary value in his speeches. Someone else may not think so. The point Im trying to make is, there are no ‘right’ books to read. Chart your own reading journey. 

3) Reading kindles an urge to write.  I remember, much to my embarrassment now, when I tried to write my first poem. I couldnt bear to look at it after it was done - it looked like a cheap imitation of my favourite  song - and it died a quiet death. And the next attempt at writing was the same, as was the next - they all looked like cheap imitations of things I admired. Over time, my writing sounded more honest and more like me, sometimes even work that I could be proud of. Any creative endeavour starts with imitation but it doesnt stop there. Dont let inhibitions or judgement come in the way of your creations.

3) Many of us have heard the question: Why read, why write, why is the use of all this?  Technology has the answers to all of humanity's problems. Sometimes, we have these questions ourselves. To this I say, the problems of the world are not merely external and outside. Each one of us, has some fundamental questions.  What is the meaning of my life in this grand scheme of things?  Am I the only person who feels a certain way ? Am I all alone , an oddity , a specimen in this vast, cold, unforgiving world? You are not alone . Many men, over the ages have been grappling with similar questions, going through similar things in their own lives. Their works are records of their inner lives. You can learn from them. And someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. And this beautiful transmission transcends time. We read and write  to live countless lives, across time and space. We read and write to see different ways of looking at the world, the people around us and ourselves, enriching the flavour of our life. We read and write to know the stories of human race and where we fit in. Without literature, without art we would know next to nothing about the lives of our own forefathers and  the history of our civilization. Art  helps us understand and express who we are and where we come from. 

 I know some of you may be anxious about your academics, maybe the first periodical results, are they done?, might have dampened your spirits. But consider this, at no other time in your life will you be around 4000 people of roughly the same age group. 4000 thousand people, people with their own interest, their own passions and their own stories. Spend time getting to know them and spend time with them. 

 Srishti is a wonderful platform to get to know a great bunch of people with varied interests. They are into theatre, books, poetry, you name it. They hang out at the English Department, where the nice folks there treat them to tea and good books from their library. Walk into Srishti and you'll find good friends and understanding mentors. Act in their dramas, attend their poetry meets and book reviews under trees, write for their yearly magazine and you will have memories to cherish about your life here. You will look back and remember the drama that you enacted, the poetry that you read out, the article you edited instead of looking back on a blank slate of classes, time at the canteen and your assignments. Most importantly, you will form friendships and associations that will last you well beyond the four years you spend here.

I would like to end with a dialogue from this beautiful movie called The Dead Poets Society. Some of you might have seen it. “We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for...you are here - life exists.. the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. The powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
 Thank you

Evanescence

The fluorescence of those tiny bulbs, accentuating the darker green of the leaves. The yellow-amber of the Chinese lamps. The cobalt blue of sky, in contrast with the azure sea. The red blush of the last rays of the sun.

The grainy, gentle resistance of sand, the rocks smoothed by eons of waves. The breeze. The rhythmic rush of the waves; caressing, awakening, enlivening.

The sour taste of beer, the strumming of the guitar, the lilting vocals, the shimmering swaying bodies- moving apart, yet getting ever closer. A brush, a touch, a smile.

A touch. An embrace. A stolen kiss. An open full blown one. The embrace of bodies, the swaying, the twisting, the madness. Exhaustion.Sitting by the side.

The slow midnight walk, under the soft arc of the moon.

Your room, her clothes, your bed, her arms, your mouth, her skin, your hands, her arched back; the rising pitch, the frenzied moments, the shared crescendo. Union. Oblivion. Exhaustion.  The shared warmth. The sun rays on the scattered sheets. You alone on your bed. Normalcy.

Was it just a dream? Isn’t it all a dream?

Choices

                                                       

I may not be conversant in the ways of the world. I may not understand the impulses and compulsions of men and how to twist them to your ends. I may probably never learn how to get things done. And I do know, this leaves me extremely vulnerable to the world and its ways. I will be exploited, my heart will be torn and my very guts wrenched out of me.

But you see, this was a choice I made a long time ago; a choice I consciously made- to choose the ideal over the real, poetry over prose, the subject over the object.  I chose elegance and subtlety, principles and convictions.  I chose life. In all its glory, in its entire splendor. In its radiant beauty and it naked fragility, I chose life. Life as it should be, over life as it is.

Maria

Its late on a dark windy night. It might just start to pour any moment now. You look at the road, anxiously waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of those distinctive headlamps, the familiar sputtering, wheezing, rattling of an auto. Your chances are slim; vehicular traffic has become sparse over the past half an hour. You have already tried waving a few down, without much success. "Pogadhu saar". Another one whooshes past you , the flying side flap revealing intimately entwined figures. 

You see another one and you walk into the main road to make sure that he sees you. You wave him down and put on your best imitation of  Chennai tamizh. "100 ruba". You are stunned. " Maatna  police ku".  Exasperated by your puzzlement he says " The". You are bewildered, worried and you understand nothing. You get in anyway. The auto starts moving. Its pitch dark inside. One side is already covered by the flap. The driver does the same to the other side.

You are nervous. You don't know what he meant about police . Maybe he is delivering a load? At midnight? Of what? You shudder at being caught with whatever it is.

Slowly, you hear movements and become aware of a living presence. Your mobile reveals the contour of a face and the silhouette of a shapely body.  You are startled by the blonde hair resting in a fringe on her forehead. The  blue eyes look at you. An anxious look.  But behind that , in its depths, there is a calm. Ive seen everything , those eyes say. All this in less than a few seconds.

Then it hits you. Thevidiya. Prostitute. You shudder at the thought of the auto being stopped simply because both blinds were down, to find the both of you. You reconcile yourself to that possibility, thinking " enna aida pogudhu?"; you've gotten in anyway and you might as well see it through. All this in less than a few seconds.

" Where are you from " you ask, going by the blonde hair and blue eyes.
 "Pondicherry" 
" Tamizh theriyuma?" you ask, a little foolishly.
 "Theriyum".
  
"Epdi?"
"Valandha edam tamizh dhaan"
"Ippo enga pora", probably the worst question you could have asked.
"ooru trivizha. Gramathula". 

You nod, understanding perfectly. Record dances were an integral part of festivities. But a blonde? The crowd would go wild, you suppose.

"Pondicherry la?" you ask, unwilling to finish. She understands. " Amma kalyanathuku munnadi porandachu. ammaku kalyanam aachu .3 pasanga. Theriyum. "

She melts you.

"Enakku... enna solradhunu therila" you manage to stutter. She acknowledges that, taking your hand in hers.

She is a prostitute, your conditioning tells you You though, have already bonded with her. You..You admire her. She, who has seen more of life than you ever will. She who has more depth than you ever will. She could submerge you in her life, swallow you, amalgamate you in her experience.

It is at moments like these that you catch a glimpse.  Its at moments like these that you commune with reality. A soft,tender, ethereal kiss on your cheek, her eyes closed. An eternity passes. You smile. 

Depravity -2

I sit on the street mound at ten am on a warm Bangalore morning joint in hand. Three travelers carrying a couple of bags of luggage each give me puzzled glances. The stare at the hand holding the joint, pause for a second and then go their way. They wonder what I'm doing here on a Monday morning. They would be shocked by what I was holding. Or heck they might have thought I'm sitting here cigarette in hand, inhaling away to glory, relaxed, with all the time in the world to spare, to sit and stare at how everyone is rushing to work, always tense, always in a hurry.

What am I doing with my live they ask. And people have asked. You are young and you have your whole life in front of you . They talk about working hard, about achieving and about purpose in life. About how it makes life worth living. They scurry along rushing to whatever twenty story building houses their office, the stress showing on their faces. What if I'm late they think. Maybe the frown on their faces has to do with forcing yourself to work on a Monday morning. Maybe they worry about the next deadline to meet, the next person to answer to. Life gets easier as time goes by. Promotions, more power, a better salary. Worker bees of yet another colony, slaving away their lives. And they pity me.

That can't be my life.I can't live like that. I can't barter away my life and time . The trick is to minimise your wants. I've perfected the art. My needs boil down to just two things. Joints and books. Thankfully, both come cheap.

I stay at the place my parents left me. I subsist on their savings as workers. I have the company of people who care for my company, for the quality of conversations I bring to the table; People who would sponsor my dinner, buy me a pint of beer or share a joint. I have people who think what I scribble is worth something. And so I subsist on inherited pittance, the generosity of my company and what garbage I spew from my pen. I get to go to second hand book markets where I get to walk along narrow corridors with small stalls on either sides filled with brown battered dusty books with sellers ever willing to strike a bargain. My eyes roam through piles of books tracing the titles on their broken spines, my eyes glinting when I find a Tagore amidst the Barbara Bradfords. I take my time searching for gems among the dust, of reading titles on spines, sometimes picking a book to read the blurb, sometimes opening a random page and savouring the flow of words but always savouring the joy of looking at so many books and wondering what I would find.

I get to buy ten books at five hundred; fodder that will last me a couple of days. I get to wake up late grab the book next to me and read as long as I want. I get to roll a joint from my stash on a Monday morning and sit on the mound in front of my house and watch the people rush by . On really good days I get to do both.

The Women in your Life.

You may meet her at a mall, when you casually turn back to see her flipping through that one book that caught your eye in the shelf. She would seem the quiet type, lost in her own world, where only black ink on white pages exists. At first glance, nothing would strike you about her. A closer look will reveal more. A tastefully chosen earring, accentuating the soft curve of her earlobe; the colour of her lens frame; those carefully chosen sandals. The way she carries herself. Her confidence in standing in the middle of a store, not caring about the world around her,  focused on the words - the worlds within. And you would yearn to connect, to be allowed entry into her world.

You may meet her at a clothes store, dressed casually, nonchalantly even, in old shorts and a faded top. Your mouth would open slightly before you realise it. You would have not seen her face yet, but you are already drawn to her effortless elegance , her unassuming confidence.You strain to look at her face, but those tresses evade your mind. You sigh, wishing you could speak to her, the sigh conveying everything- the desire, the hope , the futility. You are afraid.  Afraid that by getting to know her, she may somehow fall short of the angelic vision in your head. You sigh and you walk on, the image never quite leaving you.

You may meet her on the warm sands, amidst the sun the waves and the euphoria- a solitary figure, sitting by herself, her legs crossed, her eyes open- seeing nothing and yet seeing everything. Her curls sway gently in the sea breeze. You are inexplicably drawn to her,. She calms you, detaches you, makes you pause for a minute and look at it all- not as you, but as a third person- looking at the world, your perception of the world through your eyes and the resultant thoughts, emotions and memories they evoke. You see it all. And it scares you. You snap out of it.You snap back in. And you see everything. You see her. Your world has changed.

You may meet her at a mall, on the waves; you may see her on the road as you pass her by. She may strike a chord in you. Touch you in a new way. A brush. A touch.  A word. A mood. An emotion. An experience. A memory.



This is  blog post number 100. A personal milestone for me. This blog has seen five years of my writing.  Thanks for the encouragement, the criticism and the motivation. Here is to a 100 more.