| pallavi's profileA clear midnightPhotosBlogLists |  Tools  Help |
|
A clear midnightSeptember 09 HerA quiet, beautiful lady. An aquiline nose sitting atop the briefest smile, warm intelligent eyes hiding a perspicacious mind. In an age of the mundane, one of the last breeds of accomplishment, simplicity and hope. She smoked a lot but in her, it seemed less an idulgence or a statement but more a part of her intrinsic 'meh'. My mind's eye always imagined her in balmy old fashioned Bombay, long before it became Mumbai, at sixteen, perhaps or maybe seventeen, lighting up for the first time. She probably had long hair then and was gorgeous to behold in her immaculate skirts and jumpsuits. A doctor of skilled strength and learning, she wore her mantles lightly. It was again like the hairband on her short cropped hair, or the casual stubs of smoke on the table. Ordinary, everyday affairs. Not requiring special attention or treatment. But simply Is.
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Now, the genetic whirlpool has swayed in time to recast the same vintage wine in a healthy, wholesome good bottle. No pearls or blouses, only Benetton T-shirts and raggedy shorts. But, Mendelin was right, the hour-glass will slowly sift the sand. Each passing grain brings out a stronger resemblance than expected. And each woman will become her mother. That in her time, will be her tragedy.
But to be able to look down at our hands, and see our mothers in their lines. That, is what holds the storm together, when everything throws it asunder.
God Bless.
............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... October 27 diwali lights..Every Diwali, every year, my sister would painstakingly draw elaborate designs around the house. There would be colours, candles and flowers intricately arranged into small acts of beauty. She'd spent hours labouring over a small neglected corner of the house and a few minutes over the centre pieces with magnificent results. The feminine touch, so to speak, was everywhere. Meanwhile, I'd use the holiday break to catch up on my reading and sleeping.. casually sauntering in and out of the welcome intimacies. It never made sense to me to spend hours over Rangoli which would be washed away in a day or two. It seemed too trivial, too demeaning a pursuit.
Too female. In my utopian world, it perhaps smacked of sterotypes of bindi toting, sari clad, belan laden women. My sister could have been just another dutiful daughter fitting ino the right mould.
So last year, when someone mentioned colours and decoration to a newly married me, I laughed it off. " Nah, not a chance. Not me." I thought and perhaps articulated my disapproval very well.
But this year, something changed. An ideal world is aesthetically authentically pretty. Is it not. Wen we think perfect, do we not think beautiful crystal, silver balls and tinkling laughter. Surely not drab depressing spaces crowding our messy lives.
Or maybe I use words like aesthetics and authentic to defend a sudden liking of candles and roses. :)
Between this morning and evening, a fairytale has been unfolding around me. A thousand lit candles. Aromas of rose, jasmine, chocolate and strawberry. Gentle Pinks and verdant Greens.
Its a Diwali break like no other. One that's left my stereotypes in little bits and pieces yet left me strangely content once more.
Happy Diwali To the Old and the New.. :) March 16 Perspectives..Perspective... a word looping out from a strand of a half forgotten conversation. It all boils down to that one word. Really.
Not who you are. But how you look at things. Not what you do. But how you do it. Perspectives.. Sound and light.. shadows and silence.. they come they go.. we filter images, register words, translate intentions. At the end of the day, we hold up this mosiac to the light of our own eyes and watch the truth emerge. Our own personal truth.. your truth.. my truth.. a credo of kinds.
And if the shades, the differences were well captured, then sometimes, we can take a step back and view the full picture. Look at the different forces, the multihued voices that went into creating that framework, the emotions that gently sloped into the mould, some rushing fiercely in, others lingering, meandering through the hidden crevices of memory to emerge subtly...all to create that painting that glints the sun off the grass as we hold it up, looking with jaded/tired/cynical eyes.
How long do I look at the painting. What all do I see. What do I do with it. Do I wish that maybe insight and perispicacity had never revealed to me the things that I dont want to know. Or am I wise with the knowledge of whispering leaves.
Will this painting now fluff into the air and dissipate into the clouds. And will I look down upon my hands, looking at the emptiness that lurks within... look at them, fine fingered bareness.. and smile in quiet contentment. Will I then turn to look at the green grass around me, feel the wind and turn walk back with the warmth soaking into my back. Is it the sunshine or the painting's beauty that draws a cloak around me, protecting me, loving me. I wonder.
March 07 Closing Lines..He first and I behind, we climbed so high
that through a small opening I saw
some of the turning beauties of the sky.
And we came out to see, once more, the stars.
- Canto 34, Dante's Inferno
Of Babies and Holi..So its spring time again. That beautiful transition between winter and summer when we shed our woolies and don spags with a shawl thrown on.
As warmer bright hues give way to light pastels, along comes a jamborie of colours to help us select from the beautiful palatte unfolding outside our windows. Yep. Holi, it is.
This Holi was not about Bhang and Revelry and Colours. It was a muted one which allowed the innocence of young ones to unfurl tenderly the joy of rubbing 'gulal' for the first time in their tiny hands.
Let me elaborate.. My festival started by awakening to the sounds of an excited eight year old filling balloons and buckets of water. As early morning slowly gave way to lazy breakfasty Sunday newspapers..the excitement turned to grumbly "No one's coming to play with me."
This from a child who had bawled copiously at 4 months to see himself pinked by bratty sisters and at 5 years, had thought he'd get slapped for daring to pour water on his lil di.
Anyways, the grumbles gave way to whoops with two buckets of water steathily splashing on his head from the balcony. And the baby-frowns turned to sulky grins.
............................................................................................................................................................................................................
The next child in line was my one year old niece. Daintily dressed, she emerged from the confines of a quiet house to silver faced parents and grubby grandparents. In a world gone mad, she heard familiar voices, but recognised no faces. And bawled her lungs out. However, she must have figured that the only way to save her kin was to jump onto the bandwagon. And jump she did into the lap of her coloured mother and emerged soon after smudgily smiling and cozily pinky silver.
And her Cheeky Aunt stood in a corner laughing. Waiting. For she recognises a kindred soul and knows Holi will be fun with the youngster in the years to come.
..........................................................................................................................................................................................................
And finally, the reason for this post... a tiny little shy turbanned friend. All of five and wide eyes to boot. He stood still scared in a corner as the world raced to colour his parents and showered them with ice cold water. The Screeches and Whoops brought his safe world crashing down as all authority figures in his life crumbled to gulal. The brave upper lip was twitching. It was a time to flee or cry.
Then came along a dear older friend with a huge Green water pistol. The kind he had been warned against in school. But surely now, he was done for..the water would come anytime soon now. But instead of feeling wet furious splashes and squirts, he saw the boy by his side, showing him how to press the trigger.
First a shy push, then stronger and a final give-it-all-I-have shoot aimed at a cheering Di-di. Yet the distance remained. A safe measure between him and the colours of the world. Then came along two people, a big girl and a small boy, carrying a platefull of Rang. They showed him the dish and asked him to put his hands in it and feel the colours. Hesitantly, he saw his hands turn green..but before his face could turn a further shade of white, the little boy asked him to colour his face. Gently, still fearing retaliation, he applied colour to one cheek and then another. Gradually, the colours of the festival reflected their joy on his face.
I, last saw them, going from one adult to another, gently performing the traditional greeting of the Festival of Colours.
A handful of Gulal. On one cheek and then another. A teeka. And a hug.
Happy Holi..
February 28 S's List..Everything is possible. Any montrosity. All beauty. Anything imaginable can usually be executed.
We just have to be willing to pay the price for it.
For they are right, heaven does come with a price tag attached to it. And if we must partake the pleasures,so must we bear the payment.
Saw Schindler's List yesterday in a rare screening. The auditorium was small and cosy. There were a few chairs but mostly cushions were arranged on the wooden stairs to allow the audiences the vague comfort of physical discomfort. I dont think its a movie most of us would be happy watching in the cushy luxuries of homely armchairs.
I expected the movie to be dark, deary and depressing.
It is a movie that plays in the back of your mind, long after you have seen it. It puts its self in that vague area of subconscious and conscious that you find yourself startled to be thinking about it again. Its random loop slowly interweaves its way in through mundane thoughts of life n work. And suddenly the graphic images come back. And amidst, all of it, a laughing businessman entertaining and living.
A man on his way to becoming an industrialist fighting for his right to production. And his country's army, busy fighting a World War listening to him <amidst generously handed bribes>. Interestingly, it took a Jew to get him there.
Spools of reel slowly etching out his self-bespoonery even as intelligence draws upon him. The subtleties of his charachter shifting to adapt yet silently influence those around him. His ability to read a man for what he's worth. For what his price is.
Paying it as bribes. First for profits. Then using those those to further price a man's soul and his right to life.
The classic words when the negotiation happens with Goethe- the SS Nazi man.
What are those people worth to you.
No, what are they worth to you.
A train misdirected to Aushwitz.
Take 300 other people, instead of the ones on your list. They are just names.
A gamble. It would still be 300 lives.
No. I want those.
What if he lost. He would have lost the chance of saving 300 extra lives.
Played and won. Gave men back their wives and childern their mothers.
And the man, who played the part lost the Oscar to Tom Hanks for Philadelphia.
Lesson: Our sins of present are more important than the sins of our ancestors.
Hanks was incredible too, btw.
A brilliant Classic. February 20 MadnessMadness. Madness. Insanity. Idealism. Dreamer. Visionary. Impossibility. Anarchy. Insanity. Madness. We all need a bit of madness to stay sane. Or do we need a bit of sanity to stay Mad. Who would I rather be. Mssr Sane or Mssr Mad. Or a bit of both. Who is more fun. Who lives life on the edge. Who climbs swifter but falls faster too. Builds castles in the air and then brings in sanity. Execute the worldly responsibilites or play with the demons within. In a world that is getting boringly real, bringing out the madness is good way to stay sane. Need something to hold unto. A vision. A dream. Or perhaps a quirk. Quirkiness. A prized state of being. Whimsical minus the emotion. Sillily Nerdy. With a point. Can be witty. Might think out of the box. Might just be plain silliness. A milder way to walk the edge. Quirk. An intellectualised repositry of risk. Quirk. Look at a word for long enough and it may lose form and meaning. Does that hold true for most other things as well. Try n tell. Can I get back in touch with the madness within. Realism is too boring. February 16 ...in the vanishing blue smoke
a fading genie tells
the petering rain drop
dont be afraid to go
November 05 High on life.. !!!How do I define satisfaction. How do I defend my right to my destiny.
Answers. To questions from well meaning friends. To concerned cousins.
Where do I get those from. How do you answer a polite social question, without getting into the intricate web of intimacies. How do you explain that this is how it is meant to be. And this is right because it feels right. If my life, so far, was a buildup to a point, then this is that nadir.
This is it. For the time being.
There will be more crests, more troughs. More beautiful waves carrying me to the different shores of my life, to different people.
But the tide just came in. Its a beautiful night. And I'm high on life.
This is how it was meant to be. BE.
......................................................................................................................................................................................................
If there is a silence below the crescendo, it perhaps signals an approaching storm or an emptiness perhaps. But the cascading music of the waves drowns the silence. Its a beautiful life.
September 26 D's hermitageHow many people do we really need to know?
If a person's thought process is best described by what he does for work- then why not read his book or his balance sheet. Or perhaps appreciate his art. Why the need to talk. To communicate.
If I can increase my knowledge and perception by a simple study, then there would be no need for me to further spend my time. And for many people that is perhaps true. Surface judgements often consist of where a person is from, who their parents are, what education and so on and so forth. In another time, religion and caste were also important. Perhaps still are. But I'd rather ignore them.:)
So if I make a value judgement on surface, I am perhaps wrong. There doesnt seem to be an accurate way of gauging a mind's capability at first glance. Hence the need for investment of time et al.
But I digress here. The need to talk in this instance seems to arise from the need to assess another's ability or ability to hold a conversation. But if your ability or mine for that matter has been amply demonstrated then why the conversation.
Herein, in this space, I believe steps in the requirement for dialogue. If I read your/a book, my thinking (hopefully) goes up a few notches. Contemplation starts. Questions arise. And perhaps wisdom lies in asking the right questions. But I'd sure as hell would want someone to answer them for me as well. God, you listening??? :p
Hence, perhaps the need to debate, discuss, argue. In short, spark up those grey cells.
So some people are needed to provide intellectual fodder for. What about the others. The ones that we hoot with laughter with. Chuckle with. Party with. << I am convinced the two sets cant go together>>
What are they for.
And Im not even going into murky mawkish waters of fine sentiment & emotions here.
Three different subsets. Three different requirements. Call them compartments, if you will.
Human Bondage. And the perils thereof??
So how many people do we really need to know. And how many people do we merely know to need (for whatever reason).
Someone show me the way to a hermitage, please. Or am I aldready there?? |
|
||||
|
|
